ODUCTION TO  J/JEME -UNITING 


m  FLETCHER  MI)  G-R  CARPMTFR 


Southern  Branch 
of  the 

University  of  California 

Los  Angeles 

Form  L  1  - 

COO-V 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


J 


JUL  6  IStt 
'^■^AV  28  1928 
FE?  4      1954 


Form  L-9-5jm-7,'23 


■•i 


INTRODUCTION 

4^  I^K^/ 


TO 


THEME- WRITING 

STAi^iiORMAL  SCHOOL 

LOS  AKOIEL^B.  -'-  OAL 

BY 

J.    B.    FLETCHER 

IxSTRUCTUR    IN'    EXGLISH    IN    HARVARD    COLLEGE 
AND 

G.    R.    CARPENTER 

Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  Enc;lish  Composition 
IN  Columbia  Collegk 


BOSTON 

ALLYN    &    BACON 

1893 


Copyright,  1893, 
By   GEORGE    R.    CARPENTER. 


C.  J.  Peters  &  Son, 

TYPOGRAPHERS    AND    ELECTROTYHERS, 
145    HIGH    ST.,    BOSTON,    MASS. 


PREFACE. 


The  lectures  that  form  the  basis  of  this  book  were  deliv- 
ered before  the  Freshman  class  at  Harvard  College  in  the 
spring  of  1893  by  Mr.  J.  B.  Fletcher.  Learning  that  he 
did  not  intend  to  publish  them  in  any  form  himself,  I  ob- 
tained his  permission  to  issue  them  as  a  text-book  for  use 
in  my  own  classes  and  in  those  of  several  other  teachers 
who  had  known  them  in  manuscript.  In  adapting  my 
friend's  work  to  a  new  purpose  I  have  frequently  been 
obliged  to  change  the  form  of  the  original  lectures,  to  re- 
arrange the  matter  contained  in  them,  and  to  add  fresh 
material.  'I'he  result  has  been  a  joint  production,  which 
will  be  found,  we  think,  to  contain  much  of  the  subject- 
matter  necessary  for  students  who  have  completed  the 
introductory    course    in    rhetoric    usually    prescribed    at 

the  beginning  of  the  Freshman  year. 

G.  R.  C. 
November,  1893. 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION. 


I.  The  Purpose  of  this  Book. — 2.  Benefits  to  be  derived  from 
this  Course  of  Study.  —  3.  Kinds  of  Composition. — 4.  Mu- 
tual Relations  of  the  Elements  of  Composition. — 5.  The 
Principle  of  Composition.  —  Exercise Pages  1-6 


CHAPTER   I. 

LETTER-WRITING. 

I.  The  Impersonal  or  Business  Letter. — 2.  The  Impersonal  or 
Business  Letter :  Courtesy.  —  3.  The  Personal  Letter.  —  Exer- 
cise    Pages  7-1 1 

CHAPTER    II. 

TRANSLATION. 

I.  The  Two  Kinds  of  Translation.  — 2.  Translation  in  which  the 
Idea  Alone  is  Important.  —  3.  Hints  as  to  Procedure.  — 
4.  Translation  in  which  Form  is  as  Important  as  Matter. 
—  Exercise Pages  12-32 

CHAPTER    III. 

DESCRIPTION. 

I.  The  Uses  of  Description.  —  2.  The  Natural  Method:  the 
Photograph. — 3.  The  Inventory. — 4.  Description  by  De- 
tail: the  Beginning.  —  5.  Description  by  Detail :  the  Funda- 
mental Image. —  6.   Plan:  Arrangement  and  Classification. — 

V 


VJ.  TABLE    OF  CONTENTS. 

7.  The  Defect  of  the  Method  of  Details.— S.  The  Prin- 
ciple of  Selection. — 9.  Description  by  the  Exaggeration  of 
a  Single  Trait. —  10.  Description  by  a  Single  Trait:  the 
Epithet.  —  II.  The  Principle  of  Suggestion.  —  12.  Methods 
of  Suggestion.  —  13.  The  Pathetic  Fallacy  and  its  Abuse.  — 
14.  Description  by  Means  of  Narration. — Exercise.     Pages  33-63 

CHAPTER   IV. 

NARRATION. 

I.  The  Fitness  of  Language  for  Narration.  —  2.  The  Extent  of 
the  Material  for  Narrative.  —  3.  An  Objective  Point  Neces- 
sary.—  4.  The  Two  Great  Classes  of  Subject-Matter  in  Nar- 
ration, and  the  Means  Appropriate  to  Each.  —  5.  History: 
Interconnection  of  Facts.  —  6.  Guides  for  selecting  the  Facts 
in  Historical  Writing:  Interest.  —  7.  How  Judgment  should 
act  as  a  Check  on  Interest.  —  8.  Guides  for  selecting  the 
Facts  in  Historical  Writing:  Sympathy. — 9.  Guides  for 
selecting  the  Facts  in  Historical  Writing:  Rejection. — 
10.  Romance :  the  Test  of  the  Fact  not  Literal  Truth  but  Con- 
sistency.—  II.  Elements  of  All  Narrative. —  12.  The  Pur- 
pose.—  13.  The  Plot  and  the  Characters.  —  14.  Situation. 
— 15.  The  Beginning;   the  Plan;   Climax. — Exercise. 

Pages  64-S6 

CHAPTER   V. 

CRITICISM. 

I.  Literary  Criticism  and  its  Importance. — 2.  The  First  Requi- 
site: a  Knowledge  of  the  Facts.  — 3.  Judgment  must  be  ren- 
dered in  Accordance  with  the  Facts. — 4.  Structure:  the 
Beginning.  —  5.  Structure:  the  Summary.  —  6.  Structure: 
the  Decision. —Exercise Pages  87-91 

CHAPTER   VI. 

EXPOSITION. 

I .  Distinction  between  the  Two  Great  Classes  of  Composition.  — 
2.  Exposition  is  Beneficial  to  Intellectual  Growth. — 3. 
The    Subject-Matter    of    Exposition.  —  4.    Unity  in    Exposi- 


TABLE    OF  C0N7ENTS.  Vll 

tion.  —  5.  Method  of  collecting  Material  for  Exposition.  — 
6.  Method  of  collecting  Material  for  Exposition :  Exclusion 
and  Analogy. —  7.  Practical  Hints.  —  8.  The  Plan.— 9. 
What  is  Indispensable  to  a  (iood  Exposition.  —  10.   Exercise. 

Pages  92-109 

CHAPTER   VH. 

ARGUMENT. 

I.  Argument  an  Act  of  Judgment.  —  2.  Argument  a  Means  of 
Self-Defence.  —  3.  The  Dignity  of  Exposition  and  the  Dan- 
gers of  the  Argumentative  Attitude. — 4.  Earnestness  and 
Tact  the  Main  Qualities  called  for  in  Argument.  —  5.  The 
Point  at  Issue. — 6.  The  Proposition  :  the  Terms. — 7.  Defi- 
nition of  Terms.  —  8.  Terms  and  the  Special  Issue. — 
9.  The  Special  Issue —  10.  Proof.  —  11.  Another  Example  of 
Proof.  —  12.   Proof  and  Evidence.  —  13.    Kinds  of  Evidence. 

—  14.  Tests  of  Evidence.  —  15.  Some  kinds  of  Evidence  are 
Stronger  than  Others.  —  16.  A  Scheme  of  the  Relative  Force 
of  Different  Sorts  of  Evidence.  — 17.  The  Strength  and 
Weakness  of  the  Kinds  of  Evidence  :  Evidence  before  Experi- 
ence. — 18.  The  Strength  and  Weakness  of  the  Kinds  of 
Evidence:  Evidence  after  Partial  Experience. —  19.  The 
Strength  and  the  Weakness  of  the  Kinds  of  Evidence:  Evi- 
dence based  on  Full  Experience.  —  20.   Briefs  for  Argument. 

—  21.  Exercise  on  the  Principles  of  Argument.  —  22.  Per- 
suasion  Pages  1 10-133 

IxDKX  TO  Passages  Quoted Page  135 


INTRODUCTION. 


1.  The  Purpose  of  this  Book.  —  A  first  course  in  rhet- 
oric usually  deals  with  the  choice  of  words,  with  the 
ways  in  which  they  are  combined  into  sentences,  with 
the  structure  of  paragraphs  and  of  the  whole  compo- 
sition, and  with  the  most  important  qualities  of  style. 
At  the  end  of  such  a  general  course  the  pupil  is 
ready  for  work  of  a  different  character  :  he  is  pre- 
pared to  examine  the  various  kinds  of  writing  which 
men  are  naturally  called  upon  to  undertake  or  to 
appreciate,  and  to  search  for  the  sort  of  treatment 
that  is  particularly  appropriate  to  each.  For  it  is 
obvious  that  an  argument,  for  example,  is  not  con- 
structed in  the  same  fashion  as  a  book-review,  nor  is 
the  aim  which  we  have  in  mind  when  we  are  describ- 
ing a  scene  the  same  as  that  we  have  in  view  when 
we  tell  a  story.  Our  study  of  the  kinds  of  compo- 
sition, then,  is  simply  an  attempt  to  discover  what 
sort  of  treatment  is  appropriate  to  certain  important 
varieties  of  subject-matter  which  we  are  continually 
called  upon  to  handle  in  written  composition. 

2.  Benefits  to  be  Derived  from  this  Course  of  Study.  — 
From  a  course  of  study  like  this  we  may  expect  to 
derive  two  kinds  of   benefit  :    first,  we  shall   get    a 


2  INTRODUCTION. 

clear  idea  of  the  methods  actually  employed  in  sev- 
eral important  species  of  composition,  and  some 
experience  in  applying  them  to  work  of  our  own  ; 
second,  we  shall  learn  to  appreciate  critically  certain 
genres  of  literature. 

3.  The  Kinds  of  Composition.  —  The  kinds  of  com- 
position which  we  shall  consider  are  Letter-writ- 
ing, Translation,  Description,  Narration,  Criticism, 
Exposition,  Argument,  and  Persuasion.  Of  these, 
Description,  Narration,  Exposition,  Argument,  and 
Persuasion  are  the  most  important,  for  they  may  be 
considered  as  constituting,  in  a  large  sense,  the  ele- 
ments of  composition,  in  as  much  as  nothing  can  be 
written  in  prose  or  verse  that  is  not  either  one  of 
them  or  a  combination  of  two  or  more  of  them.  The 
functions  of  these  five  elements  are  the  following : 
Description  produces  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  a 
picture,  as  it  were,  of  certain  objects  or  persons ; 
Narration  gives  an  account  of  an  event  or  a  series  of 
events  ;  Exposition  explains  the  theory  underlying 
a  group  of  connected  facts  ;  Argument  convinces  the 
reader  of  the  truth  of  a  proposition,  or  propositions  ; 
and  Persuasion  induces  the  reader  to  adopt  a  certain 
line  of  action.  An  account  of  the  view  from  Mt. 
Washington,  for  instance,  would  be  a  description  ;  an 
account  of  the  ascent  of  Mt.  Washington,  a  narrative; 
an  account  of  the  way  in  whi'^h  a  volcano  is  formed, 
or  acts,  would  be  an  exposition ;  the  proof  of  the  fact 
that  volcanic  action   has   a   direct    connection  with 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

changes  in  the  bed  of  the  sea  would  be  an  argument ; 
and  a  political  address  that  won  a  man's  vote  would 
be  an  effective  piece  of  persuasion.  These  five  kinds 
of  composition,  it  will  be  further  noticed,  fall  into 
two  groups,  one  of  which  has  to  do  with  things  and 
the  other  with  thoughts.  Description  tells  us  what 
things  arc ;  Narration,  what  they  do ;  Exposition,  on 
the  other  haiid,  expounds  to  us  the  nature  of  certain 
thoughts ;  Argument  convinces  us  of  the  truth  or 
falsity  of  certain  thoughts  ;  and  Persuasion  makes 
certain  thoughts  a  stimulus  to  action.  This  distinc- 
tion we  shall  examine  later  in  greater  detail. 

4.  Mutual  Relations  of  the  Elements  of  Composition.  — • 

These  five  elements  of  composition  frequently  shade 
into  each  other,  so  that  one  can  scarcely  distinguish, 
for  instance,  where  Description  leaves  off  and  Narra- 
tion begins.  It  is  rare,  too,  that  we  meet  with  any 
one  of  them  in  its  most  effective  form  uncombined 
with  some  one  of  the  others.  Description,  for  exam- 
ple, is  sometimes  best  performed  by  means  of  Nar- 
ration, and,  as  we  shall  see,  good  Narration  does  not 
often  dispense  with  the  use  of  Description. 

5.  The  Principle  of  Composition.  —  The  fundamental 
principle  on  which  we  shall  base  our  study  of  the 
kinds  of  composition  is  that  of  relativity.  A  com- 
position must  be  judged,  not  by  any  fixed  rule  or 
canon,  but  simply  and  solely  by  its  effectiveness  for 
the  purpose  in  hand.  Now  this  effectiveness  for  the 
purpose  in  hand  depends  on  three  variable  quantities, 


4  ■  INTRODUCTION. 

as  it  were:  the  precise  object  in  view,  the  individ- 
uality of  the  writer,  and  the  capacity  of  the  reader. 
The  principle  of  relativity  makes  it  necessary  that 
we  should,  in  practising  any  of  the  kinds  of  compo- 
sition, decide  (i)  just  what  treatment  will  be  most 
appropriate  to  the  subject-matter  in  general ;  (2) 
what  treatment  will  most  clearly  bring  out  the  par- 
ticular ideas  or  impressions  of  the  subject-matter 
which  exist  in  the  individual  mind  of  the  author; 
and  (3)  what  treatment  will  make  most  clear  this  defi- 
nite subject  seen  from  a  given  point  of  view  to  a 
particular  class  of  readers  or  hearers.  If  we  neglect 
the  first  consideration,  we  may  find  ourselves  writing 
in  verse  —  as  frequently  happens — what  more  prop- 
erly belongs  in  prose,  or  making  a  sonnet  out  of  what 
is  but  material  for  a  ballad.  If  we  neglect  the  sec- 
ond, we  may  find  ourselves  writing  that  which  we 
are  under  the  impression  we  should  think,  not  what 
we  really  do  think.  If  we  neglect  the  third,  we  may 
fall  into  the  uncomfortable  error  of  informing  the 
public  at  great  length  of  what  it  already  knows,  or 
of  talking  or  writing  in  a  way  that  it  cannot  under- 
stand or  appreciate. 

EXERCISE. 
I.    Discuss  ;! 

1.    The  twofold  value  of  the  study  of  the  kinds  of 
composition. 

1  The  subjects  that  follow  are  suitable  topics  for  written  exercises 
or  extempore  themes. 


introduction:  5 

2.  The  kinds  of  writing  as  distinguished  from 
each  other. 

3.  The  interdependence  of  the  kinds  of  compo- 
sition. 

4.  The  ground  principle  of  composition  and  the 
three  elements  of  this  ground  principle. 

II.  Do  the  principles  of  the  novelist's  art,  as  laid 
down  in  the  following  passages  by  one  of  the  most 
successful  writers  of  our  time,  agree  with  what  is 
said  above  about  the  fundamental  principle  of  com- 
position .'' 

"  II  faut  admettre  avec  un  egal  interet  ces  theories 
d'art  si  differentes  et  juger  les  oeuvres  qu'elles  produisent, 
uniquement  au  point  de  vue  de  leur  valeur  artistique  en 
acceptant  a  priori  les  idees  ge'nerales  d'oli  elles  sent  nees. 

"  Contester  le  droit  d'un  e'crivain  de  faire  une  oeuvre 
poetique  ou  une  ceuvre  realiste,  c'est  vouloir  le  forcer  a 
modifier  son  tempe'rament,  recuser  son  originalite,  ne  pas 
lui  permettre  de  se  servir  de  I'ceil  et  de  rintelligence 
que  la  nature  lui  a  donnes. 

"  Lui  reprocher  de  voir  les  choses  belles  ou  laides, 
petites  ou  epiques,  gracieuses  ou  sinistres,  c'est  lui  re- 
procher d'etre  conforme  de  telle  ou  telle  fa9on  et  de  ne 
pas  avoir  une  vision  concordant  avec  la  notre. 

"  Laissons-le  libre  de  comprendre,  d'observer,  de  con- 
cevoir  comme  il  lui  plaira,  pourvu  qu'il  soit  un  artiste. 
Devenons  poetiquement  exaltes  pour  juger  un  idealiste 
et  prouvons-lui  que  son  reve  est  mediocre,  banal,  pas 
assez  fou  ou  magnifique.     Mais  si  nous  jugeons  un  natu- 


6  INTRODUCTION. 

raliste,  montrons-lui  en  quoi  la  verite  dans  la  vie  differe 
de  la  verite  dans  son  livre. 


"  Ayant,  en  outre,  pose  cette  verite  qu'il  n'y  a  pas,  de 
par  le  monde  entier,  deux  grains  de  sable,  deux  mouches, 
deux  mains  ou  deux  nez  absolument  pareils,  il  [Flaubert] 
me  forgait  a  exprimer,  en  quelques  phrases,  un  etre  ou  un 
objet  de  maniere  a  le  particulariser  nettement,  a  le  dis- 
tinguer  de  tons  les  autres  etres  ou  de  tons  les  autres  ob- 
jets  de  meme  race  ou  de  meme  espece. 

"  Quand  vous  passez,   me   disait-il,  devant  vm  epicier 

assis  sur  sa  porte,  devant  un  concierge  qui  fume  sa  pipe, 

devant  une  station  de  fiacres,  montrez-nioi  cet  epicier  et 

ce  concierge,  leur  pose,  toute  leur  apparence  physique, 

contenant  aussi,  indiquce  par  I'adresse  de  I'image,  toute 

leur  nature  morale,  de  fagon  a  ce  que  je  ne  les  confonde 

avec  aucun  autre  e'picier  ou  avec  aucun  autre  concierge, 

et  faites-moi  voir,  par  un  seul  mot,  en  quoi  un  cheval  de 

fiacre  ne  ressemble  pas  aux  cinquante  autres   qui  le  sui- 

vent  et  le  pre'cedent." 

Guy  de  Maupassant:  Pierre  et  Jean. 


THEME-WRITING. 


CHAPTER    I. 

LETTER-^^7■RITING. 

1.  The  Impersonal  or  Business  Letter.  —  On  one  very 
common  kind  of  composition,  letter-writing,  we  shall 
find  it  necessary  to  touch  only  very  briefly.  The 
forms  of  letter-writing-  certainly  do  not  concern  us 
here,i  and  we  \^ill  confine  ourselves  strictly  to  the 
consideration  of  the  kinds  of  subject-matter  which 
letters  may  appropriately  contain,  and  to  the  quali- 
ties of  style  they  may  show.  Letters  are,  roughly 
speaking,  of  two  kinds,  impersonal  and  personal.  In 
the  impersonal  or  business  letter  the  writer  restrains 
himself  from  all  extraneous  adornment  of  style,  or 
even  from  any  particular  display  of  individuality. 
Here  merit  lies  entirely  in  extreme  clearness  and 
conciseness,  and  the  author's  private  reflections  or 
comments  are  best  left  out  altogether,  unless  they 
directly  concern  the  point  at  issue.  As  the  indis- 
pensable qualities  of  the  good  impersonal  letter,  or 
one  that  concerns  information  solely,  are  clearness 
and  conciseness,  it  will  readily  be  seen  that  the  char- 

^  See  Carpenter's  Exercises  in  Rhetoric  and  English  Composition^ 
Advanced  Course,  Exercise  I. 


8  LETTER- WRITING. 

acteristics  of  the  letter  of  information  do  not  differ 
from  those  of  ordinary  narrative,  description,  or  ex- 
position. 

2.  The  Impersonal  or  Business  Letter  :  Courtesy.  —  The 
man  wlio  has  been  trained  in  action  rather  than  in 
thought  frequently  writes  better  letters  of  informa- 
tion than  the  finished  scholar  or  the  more  meditative 
student,  because  his  mind  grasps  more  easily  and 
represents  more  clearly  the  points  which  are  of 
prime  importance  as  regards  action.  There  is,  how- 
ever, one  trait,  that  of  courtesy,  which  invariably  dis- 
tinguishes the  letter  of  the  man  who  merely  wishes 
to  communicate  information  in  the  most  compact 
form  possible,  and  the  letter  of  the  man  who,  though 
expressing  himself  briefly,  does  not  express  himself 
bluntly,  rudely,  or  with  undue  and  indecorous  haste. 
In  our  times,  of  course,  we  should  scarcely  think  of 
addressing  even  a  total  stranger  in  quite  such  elabo- 
rately dignified  phraseology  as  that  which  Dr.  John- 
son used  in  the  following  very  beautiful  note  to  his 
friend  and  neighbor,  Edmund  Allen,  on  the  day  he 
was  stricken  with  the  palsy  :  — 

Dear  Sir,  —  It  has  pleased  God,  this  morning,  to  de- 
prive me  of  the  powers  of  speech ;  and  as  I  do  not  know 
but  that  it  may  be  his  further  good  pleasure  to  deprive 
me  soon  of  my  senses,  I  request  you  will,  on  the  receipt 
of  this  note,  come  to  me,  and  act  for  me  as  the  exigencies 

of  mv  case  may  require,     -r  ■  , 

^  -^      ^  I  am,  smcerely  yours, 

.    June  ij,  17S3.  Sam.  Johnson, 


LErrER-lVRITING.  9 

Nor,  on  the  other,  should  we  naturally  fall  to  the 
level  of  the  style  of  the  letter  given  below,  addressed 
in  all  seriousness  and  in  official  correspondence  by 
the  representative  of  an  association  of  college  alumni 
to  the  representative  of  the  faculty  and  corporation  of 
the  institution  from  which  they  were  graduated  :  — 

Dear  Sir,  —  Enclosed  find  answer  to  yours  of  3d.    Have 

just  signed  lease   for  headquarters  for ,  second  floor 

of  1258   Michigan   Avenue,  corner  of  13th   Street.     The 
Northwestern  Alumni  Association  will  endeavor  to  make 

life  pleasant  for  the boys  during  the  Fair.     Shall 

send  photograph  of  building  and  prospectus  of  arrange- 
ment later.  ,,  ^  ,, 

Yours  respectfully,     

The  courteous  medium  between  the  two  extremes 
any  teacher  who  may  chance  to  use  this  book  can 
readily  illustrate  from  his  own  correspondence. 

3.  The  Personal  Letter.  —  The  indispensable  qualities 
of  the  personal  letter  are  of  quite  another  order. 
Clearness,  brevity,  and  courtesy  are  almost  universal 
virtues  ;  but  whatever  the  personal  letter  does  or  does 
not  do,  it  must  never  disguise  completely,  or  to  any 
considerable  extent,  the  individuality  of  the  writer. 
For  the  letter  to  a  friend  is  not  an  essay  to  the  pub- 
lic at  large,  but  purely  and  simply  the  record  on  paper 
of  what  would,  if  time  or  convenience  permitted,  be 
delivered  by  word  of  mouth.  "The  best  letters," 
says   Professor   Norton,   writing  of   the  correspond- 


lO  LETTER-WRITING. 

ence  of  Lowell,  "are  truly  not  those  written  with 
literary  intent.  A  letter  with  an  address,  however 
artfully  concealed,  to  any  other  reader  than  the  per- 
son to  whom  it  is  professedly  written,  may  be  excel- 
lent, may  be  durable  as  a  piece  of  literature,  may 
have  every  merit  except  that  which  gives  to  a  letter 
its  supreme  pleasantness." 

Nothing  could  be  a  better  illustration  of  what  has 
been  said  above  than  an  extract  from  one  of  Lowell's 
own  letters :  — 

Elmwood,  Aug.  28,  1865. 

"  Why  I  did  not  come  to  Ashfield,  as  I  hoped  and  ex- 
pected, I  will  tell  you  when  I  see  you.  Like  that  poor 
doctor  in  the  Inferno,  I  have  seen  before  me  as  I  sat  in 
reverie  those  yellow  hills  with  their  dark  green  checkers 
of  woods  and  the  blue  undulation  of  edging  mountains 
(which  we  looked  at  together  that  lovely  Sunday  morning 
last  year)  I  can't  say  how  often.  Perhaps  I  do  not  wish 
to  see  them  again  —  and  in  one  sense  I  do  not,  they 
are  such  a  beautiful  picture  in  my  memory.  For  I  have 
a  theory  —  or  rather  it  belongs  to  my  temperament  to 
believe  —  that  there  are  certain  things  that  one  should 
take  a  sip  at,  as  a  bird  does  at  a  spring,  and  then  fly  away 
forever,  taking  with  us  a  snatch  of  picture,  the  trees,  the 
sky  with  its  cloud-drifts  of  warm  snow  —  yes,  and  our  own 
image  in  the  sliding  wave  too.  We  do  not  care  to  see 
our  own  footprints  on  the  edge  again,  still  less  to  tread  in 
them.  Somehow  the  geese  always  follow  where  the  song- 
birds have  been,  and  leave  their  slumpy  stars  in  the  mud 
themselves  have  made.  There,  by  ginger !  I  meant  to 
give  the  merest  hint    of   a    .sentiment,  and  1  have   gone 


LE  TTER-  WRIIYNG.  1 1 

splash  into  a  moral  !  I  did  not  mean  it,  but  I  cannot  cure 
myself.  I  shall  never  be  a  poet  till  I  get  out  of  the 
pulpit,  and  New  England  was  all  meeting-house  when  I 
was  growing  up.  But  I  assure  you  I  am  never  dull  but 
in  spite  of  myself. 

"  Somehow,  this  cool,  beautiful  summer  day,  I  feel  my 
heart  go  out  towards  you  all,  and  am  not  writing  because 
I  ought.  I  fancy  you  up  there  in  your  little  withdrawing- 
chamber  of  a  town,  with  a  hundred  miles  of  oak  '  sported  ' 
against  the  world,  and  it  makes  me  happy.  And  when 
one  is  happy,  what  a  beautiful  frame  it  sets  the  world 
in !  "  1 

EXERCISE. 

I.  Write  (i)  a  letter  in  which  your  object  is  to 
convey  a  simple  piece  of  information  to  a  stranger 
in  the  briefest,  clearest,  and  most  courteous  fashion  ; 
(2)  one  in  which  your  object  is  to  explain  to  a  cor- 
respondent a  complicated  situation  of  some  sort  or 
other  ;  (3)  one  in  which  your  object  is  to  give  an 
account,  to  an  intimate  friend,  of  your  own  life  dur- 
ing the  past  few  weeks  or  years. 

II.  Examine,  under  the  direction  of  the  instructor, 
selected  letters  from  certain  of  the  following  authors  : 
Cicero,  St.  Paul,  Voltaire,  Chesterfield,  Thackeray, 
Lowell,  and  Carlyle.  Test  them  in  regard  to  their  ade- 
quacy for  the  purpose  for  which  they  were  intended. 

1  Harper^ s Magazine,  September,  1893,  p.  559. 


12  ^_  TRANSLATION. 


CHAPTER  11. 

TRANSLATION. 

1.  The  Two  Kinds  of  Translation.  —  Of  the  value  of 
translation  a.s  an  exercise  in  composition,  and  the 
importance  of  so  mastering  both  our  own  language 
and  the  other  important  languages  that  we  can  really 
transfer  thought  from  one  tongue  to  another  with 
the  least  possible  sacrifice  of  form  or  substance,  it 
is  not  necessary  to  remind  the  student.  Our  duty  is 
merely  to  offer  such  hints  as  young  writers  may  find 
useful,  in  what  are  perhaps  their  first  serious  at- 
tempts at  translation.  We  should  first  notice  that 
the  matter  which  we  are  called  upon  to  translate  may 
be  of  two  kinds,  —  matter  in  which  the  thought,  the 
information,  there  contained  is  alone  of  value  ;  and 
matter  in  which  it  is  important  to  preserve  the  form 
as  well  as  the  thought. 

%    Translation  in  which  the  Idea  alone  is  Important. — 

The  greater  number  of  cases  in  which  we  are  called 
upon  to  translate  from  a  foreign  language  are  of  the 
kind  first  mentioned.  An  important  book  on  physics, 
philosophy,  or  history,  is  just  as  likely  to  be  written 
in  German  or  French  as  it  is  in  English  ;  but  the 
thoughts  or  ideas  contained  in  it  can  just  as  well  be 
expressed  in  English  as  in  German,  if  some  one  is 
only  willing  to  give  time  and  patience  to  mastering 


TRANSLATION.  13 

them  in  the  original,  and  to  transferring  them  to  his 
native  idiom.  In  attempting  to  translate,  then,  a  page 
of  Wundt,  or  Janet,  or  Lombroso,  or  any  of  the  histor- 
ical or  scientific  writers  of  the  day,  we  are  not  likely 
to  have  before  us  a  task  in  which  the  method  of  pro- 
cedure is  difficult  to  grasp.  The  author  chose  to 
represent  by  a  page  or  a  chapter  of  German  words  a 
certain  collection  of  facts  and  the  development  of 
a  certain  idea  or  ideas.  All  that  we  have  to  do  is  to 
make  ourselves,  through  the  medium  of  his  language, 
masters  of  his  facts  and  his  idea,  and  then  to  repro- 
duce them  fully  and  exactly  in  English.  Our  duty 
concerns  only  two  points  :  (i)  that  what  we  write  is 
precisely  what  the  author  meant,  without  omission, 
addition,  or  change  of  fact,  thought,  idea,  or  associa- 
tion ;  and  (2)  that  what  we  write  is  good  English. 
All  else  is  of  subordinate  importance.  If  the  au- 
thor is  a  Frenchman,  and  used  the  peculiar  French 
method  of  paragraph-structure,  or  German,  and  used 
the  peculiar  German  method  of  sentence-structure, 
we  are  not  in  the  least  obliged  to  follow  him  in  Eng- 
lish. English  paragraphs  and  English  sentences  are 
alone  appropriate  for  us,  nor  should  we  hesitate  to 
combine  three  tiny  French  paragraphs,  or  cut  into 
three  one  enormous  German  sentence.  It  is  the 
original  substance  that  we  want,  not  necessarily  the 
original  form. 

3.    Hints  as  to  Procedure.  — There  are  two  ways  and, 
strictly  speaking,  only  two  ways  in  which  we  can  set 


1 4  TRA  NSLA  TION. 

to  work  at  a  translation  in  which  the  reproduction  of 
the  form  of  the  original  is  not  involved.  We  can  trans- 
late literally  from  our  Latin  original,  for  instance, 
and  then  try  to  make  good  English  of  our  version, 
or  we  can  render  at  once  into  good  English,  and 
then  undertake  whatever  modifications  are  neces- 
sary in  order  to  make  the  transferrence  of  thought 
complete.  The  first  method  leads  almost  invariably 
to  disaster.  How  absurd  the  ordinary  literal  trans- 
lation of  the  schoolboy  is  may  be  seen  from  the  fol- 
lowing selection  from  a  paper  written  at  a  recent 
admission  examination  at  Harvard  College:  — 

"  Thus  they  spoke  praying  and  Pallas  Athene  heard 
them.  And  when  they  had  prayed  to  the  daughter  of  the 
mighty  Zeus,  then  they  started  to  leave,  just  as  two  lions 
who  prowling  through  the  dark  night  cause  death  and 
destruction,  and  their  dark  blood  makes  through  their 
bodies.  But  Hector  did  not  permit  the  leaders  of  the 
Trojans  to  sleep  but  called  an  assembly  of  all  the  noblest 
men,  as  many  as  there  were  leaders  and  counsel  in  the 
ranks  of  the  Trojans,  and  having  summoned  them  to- 
gether he  planned  a  skilful  plan.  And  Hector  said  '  If 
there  is  any  one  who  will  promise  to  do  this  task  to  him  I 
will  give  a  mighty  gift.  For  I  will  give  him  a  great  prize. 
For  I  will  give  to  him  a  chariot  and  two  horses  with  beau- 
tiful necks,  and  these  horses  are  the  best  that  there  are 
near  the  swift  ships  of  the  Greeks.  And  the  man  will 
receive  great  glory,  who  will  accomplish  the  task  of  ap- 
proaching the  swift  sailing  ships  and  find  out  whether  the 
swift  ships  are  guarded  as  they  formerly  were,  or  whether 
the  enemy  having  been  wounded  by  us,  are  planning  flight 


TRANSLA  TION.  ^  1 5 

with  one  another  and  do  not  want  to  keep  watch  through 
the  night,  being  overcome  by  terrible  weariness :  '  Thus 
Hector  spoke  and  the  leaders  were  all  hushed  in  silence. 
And  amongst  the  Trojans  there  was  a  certain  Dolon,  the 
son  of  Eumedes,  a  noble  herald.  This  Dolon  was  rich  in 
gold  and  silver,  he  was  not  very  well  built  but  he  was  a 
swift  runner.  And  he  was  the  only  son  of  Eumedes  but 
he  had  five  sisters.  And  thus  he  addressed  Hector  and 
the  Trojans  :  '  Oh  Hector,  My  noble  heart  and  mind  urges 
me  to  approach  near  the  swift  sailing  ships,'  and  scout 
about  them."  ^ 

But  the  abomination  of  the  patched-up  literal  trans- 
lation is  scarcely  better  than  that  of  the  bare  literal 
translation,  as  may  be  seen  from  the  following  exam- 
ple, in  which,  in  spite  of  the  care  taken  here  and 
there  to  preserve  the  English  idiom  intact,  the  whole 
tone  is  unmistakably  foreign  :  — 

"  Frederick  William,  the  great  Elector  of  Brandenburg, 
found  his  possessions  after  the  conclusion  of  the  Peace  of 
Westphalia  in  a  sad  condition  :  scattered  through  all  parts 
of  Lower  Germany,  East  Prussia  under  Polish  supremacy, 
all  under  the  control  of  an  almost  independent  nobility,  — 
this  was  the  state  of  things  which  presented  itself  to  his 
unbiassed  eye  and  energetic  will.  He  succeeded  first  in 
shaking  off  the  Polish  yoke  ;  then  he  turned  his  newly- 
acquired  authority   against  the  privileges  of  the  estates, 

1  The  Ifav't'ard  Graduates'  Magazine,  January,  1893,  pp.  183-4. 
An  ambitious  version  of  the  passage  in  question  would,  of  course, 
attempt  to  reproduce  the  form  as  well  as  the  thought  of  the  original. 
It  may,  however,  be  fairly  doubted  whether  in  this  case  the  translator 
had  such  a  purpose  in  mind. 


1 6  TRANSLATION. 

and  got  for  himself  the  control  of  the  military  and  the 
revenue  in  the  Province.  This  took  place  also  in  Bran- 
denburg, in  Cleves,  and  in  the  county  of  Mark.  His  first 
and  last  object  was  to  establish  an  ever-ready  standing 
army  ;  for  centuries  no  power  of  any  importance  had  cared 
for  the  protection  of  northern  Germany,  and  he  had 
learned  that  in  the  first  place  one  must  make  life  secure, 
and  afterwards  plan  to  improve  its  conditions.  He  suc- 
ceeded so  far  as  to  drive  out  from  Brandenburg  and 
Prussia  the  Swedes,  whose  nation  since  the  days  of  Gus- 
tavus  Adolphus  had  grown  to  be  one  of  the  great  powers  ; 
and  he  was  able  with  an  armed  hand  and  a  defiant  brow, 
to  confront  even  Louis  XIV.,  at  that  time  the  disposer  of 
the  destinies  of  Europe.  On  the  ground  of  these  services, 
his  son  Frederick  obtained,  after  great  efforts,  the  royal 
crown  of  Prussia  ;  and  his  successor,  Frederick  William 
I.,  became  after  him  the  founder  of  the  first  modern  State 
in  Germany.  His  was  a  nature  in  which  the  repulsive 
and  the  imposing,  the  uncouth  and  the  admirable,  were 
closely  united.  In  his  manners  a  rough  and  unrefined 
peasant,  in  his  family  a  tyrant,  in  his  government  a  despot, 
choleric  almost  to  madness,  his  reign  would  have  been  a 
curse  to  the  country,  had  he  not  united  with  his  unlimited 
power  a  rare  executive  ability  and  an  incorruptible  fidel- 
ity to  duty ;  and  from  first  to  last  he  consecrated  all  his 
powers  to  the  common  weal.  By  him  effective  limitations 
were  put  upon  the  independent  action  of  the  provinces, 
and  upon  the  overgrown  privileges  of  the  estates."  ^ 

If  we  would  avoid  foreignness  of  tone  or  idiom  in 

'  Von  Sybel :    The  Founding  of  tJic  German  Empire  by  William  I., 
pp.  20-2I. 


TRANSLA  TION.  1 7 

translation,  there  is,  therefore,  but  one  way  open  to 
us.  We  must  (i)  master  completely  the  thought 
of  the  original,  then  (2)  set  ourselves  to  writing  it 
down  in  the  English  language  and  in  the  English 
way,  and  (3)  then  revise  our  version  with  a  view  to 
bringing  it  into  exact  conformity  with  the  thought 
of  the  original.  That  the  tinge  of  foreignness  may 
be  reduced  to  a  minimum  may  be  seen  from  the  fol- 
lowing passage  from  Mr.  Saintsbury's  translation  of 
Scherer's  essay  on  George  Eliot  :  — 

"  It  must  be  owned,  too,  that  mere  curiosity  helped  the 
success  of  these  works ;  for  it  was  soon  seen  that  the 
name  they  bore  was  a  pseudonym.  It  was  asked  what 
was  the  author's  sex.  Not  a  few  of  the  authors  in  vogue 
had  the  honor  of  having  attributed  to  them  a  book  which 
certainly  none  of  them  was  capable  of  writing.  There 
were  guesses  and  counter-guesses  in  the  columns  of  the 
newspapers.  One  critic  —  a  French  critic,  it  is  true  — 
had  just  with  elaborate  induction  proved  that  the  author 
of  Adam  Bede  must  be  a  man,  and  what  is  more  an 
English  clergyman,  when  the  veil  was  rent.  The  en- 
chanter was  an  enchantress  —  Miss  Evans  by  name.  But 
there  was  something  that  doubled  the  mystery  at  the  very 
moment  when  it  seemed  to  vanish.  Miss  Evans  was  by 
no  means  utterly  unknown  in  the  literary  world.  She 
had  worked  on  a  very  serious  periodical,  the  Westminster 
Revieiv.  She  had  written  theological  articles  in  it.  A 
translation  of  Strauss's  celebrated  work  on  the  Life  of 
Jesus  was  hers.  What  a  mixture  of  contradictions  and 
surprises !  It  was  not  enough  to  have  to  acknowledge  a 
woman  as  the  first  novelist  of  England  ;  more  than  that, 


1 8  TRA  NSLA  TION. 

this  woman  combined  faculties  which  had  never  been  as- 
sociated in  the  memory  of  man.  She- was  at  once  a  savant 
and  a  poet.  There  was  in  her  the  critic  who  analyzes 
and  the  artist  who  creates.  Nay,  the  pen  which  had  in- 
terpreted Strauss  —  the  most  pitiless  adversary  of  Chris- 
tian tradition  that  the  world  has  produced  —  this  very 
pen  had  just  drawn  the  charming  portrait  of  Dinah,  and 
had  put  on  the  lips  of  this  young  Methodist  girl  the  in- 
spired discourse  at  Hayslope  and  the  touching  prayer  in 
the  prison." 

4.  Translation  in  which  Form  is  as  Important  as  Matter. — 
Much  more  difficult  than  the  kind  of  translation  we 
have  been  considering  is  that  in  which  it  is  no  less 
important  to  preserve  the  form  in  which  the  matter 
is  presented  than  the. matter  itself,  as  in  the  case  of 
the  Iliad,  for  instance,  which  must  obviously  have 
an  altogether  different  tone  and  quality  in  English 
blank  verse  from  that  which  it  has  in  Greek  hex- 
ameter. For  a  work  of  art,  whether  in  prose  or 
verse,  is  more  than  a  succession  of  words  which  ex- 
press a  series  of  facts  and  ideas.  In  the  work  of 
art,  each  word  depends  for  its  value  on  its  power  of 
connotation  as  well  as  its  power  of  denotation.^  Nor 
is  that  all.  In  a  work  of  art  words  are  arranged,  not 
merely  according  to  the  order  which  clearness  de- 
mands, but  in  an  order  which  heightens  the  emo- 
tional power  of  the  words  themselves  by  the  musical 

1  See  Wendell's  English  Composition,  Scribner  &  Sons,  pp.  74-5; 
or,  Carpenter's  Exercises  in  Rhetoric  and  English  Co7nposition,  Ad- 
vanced Course,  pp.  191  and  206. 


TRA  NSL  A  TION.  1 9 

effects  of  rhythm,  balance,  quantity,  accent,  allitera- 
tion, or  rhyme.  In  the  greater  number  of  cases  it 
is  impossible  to  translate  a  work  of  this  kind  with 
anything  like  adequacy.  English  and  German,  it  is 
true,  are  languages  sufficiently  similar  in  forms  and 
possibilities  of  style  to  render  the  transferrence  of 
matter  and  manner  in  some  instances  (as  in  the 
celebrated  German  translation  of  Shakspere)  strik- 
ingly successful.  But  such  cases  are  the  exception, 
not  the  rule.  Though  Hamlet  be  not  unworthy  read- 
ing in  German,  it  is  certainly  very  curious  reading  in 
French,  as  a  comparison  of  the  two  passages  printed 
below  will  prove  :  — 

"  O  that  this  too,  too  solid  flesh  would  melt, 
Thaw,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew ! 
Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  not  fix'd 
His  canon  'gainst  self-slaughter  !     O  God  !  O  God ! 
How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 
Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world ! 
Fie  on  't!     O  fie !  'tis  an  unweeded  garden. 
That  grows  to  seed  ;  things  rank  and  gross  in  nature 
Possess  it  merely.     That  it  should  come  to  this  ! 
But  two  months  dead  !  nay,  not  so  much,  not  two  : 
So  excellent  a  king ;  that  was,  to  this, 
Hyperion  to  a  satyr  ;  so  loving  to  my  mother 
That  he  might  not  beteeni  the  winds  of  heaven 

.  Visit  her  face  too  roughly.     Heaven  and  earth  ! 
Must  I  remember  ?   why,  she  would  hang  on  him. 
As  if  increase  of  appetite  had  grown 
By  what  it  fed  on  ;  and  yet,  within  a  month  — 


20  TRANSLATION. 

Let  me  not  think  on't  —  Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman  !  — 

A  little  month,  or  ere  those  shoes  were  old 

With  which  she  follow'd  my  poor  father's  body, 

Like  Niobe,  all  tears,  — why  she,  even  she  — 

O  God !  a  beast,  that  wants  discourse  of  reason, 

Would  have  mourn'd  longer  —  married  with  my  uncle, 

My  father's  brother,  but  no  more  like  my  father 

Than  I  to  Hercules." 

Hamlet,  Act  I.,  Scene  2. 

"  Oh  !  pourquoi  cette  masse  de  terre  trop  endurcie  ne 
peut-elle  s'amollir  par  la  douleur,  se  fondre  et  se  resoudre 
en  flots  de  larmes !  ou  pourquoi  I'Eternel  n'a-t-il  pas 
arme  sa  foudre  contre  le  meurtre  de  soi-meme  !  O  Dieu  ! 
6  Dieu  !  qu'elles  me  semblent  fastidieuses,  insipides  et 
vaines,  toutes  les  jouissances  de  ce  monde  !  6  Dieu,  que  je 
le  dedaigne,  et  qu'il  me  lasse  !  Ce  n'est  qu'un  champ  agreste 
et  de'genere  en  friche  ;  il  ne  se  couvre  que  de  fruits  amers 
et  d'une  nature  grossiere  et  sauvage.  —  Que  les  choses  en 
soient  venues  la  !  a  peine  deux  mois  qu'il  est  mort ! 
■ —  Non,  pas  deux  mois  encore !  Un  roi  si  accompli,  qui 
etait  aupres  de  celui-ci  ce  qu'est  un  Dieu  pres  d'un 
satyre ;  si  tendre  pour  ma  mere,  qu'il  ne  permettait  pas 
meme  aux  vents  du  ciel  d'importuner  son  visage  d'un 
souffle  trop  violent.  Ciel  et  terre  !  faut-il  que  ma  memoire 
me  reste  !  .  .  .  Quoi !  elle  s'attachait  a  lui  comme  si  sa 
passion  se  fiit  accrue  par  la  possession,  et  cependant, 
dans  I'espace  d'un  mois.  .  .  .  —  Je  ne  veux  pas  y  penser. 
—  O  fragilite,  la  femme  et  toi  n'avez  que  le  meme  nom  ! 
Un  mois  a  peine  !  —  avant  meme  qu'elle  eut  use  la  chaus- 
sure  avec  laquelle  elle  a  suivi  le  corps  de  mon  pauvre  pere, 
toute  en  larmes.  Oui,  elle,  elle-meme.  O  Ciel,  la  brute, 
privee  d'idees  et  de  raison,  aurait  pousse  plus  loin  son 


TRANSLA  TION.  2 1 

deuil.  Mariee  avec  mon  oncle,  le  frere  de  mon  pere  ; 
mais  qui  ne  ressemble  pas  plus  a  mon  pere  que  moi  a 
Hercule." 

In  translating  poetry,  that  species  of  composition 
in  which  form  plays  the  greatest  part,  we  frequently 
find  ourselves,  therefore,  in  a  dilemma.  If  our  lan- 
guage does  not  contain  the  rhythmical  or  metrical 
form  which  the  original  makes  use  of,  we  can,  at  best, 
only  adopt  the  English  form  that  seems  most  nearly 
to  reproduce  its  effect.  Take,  for  instance,  the  pas- 
sage from  the  Odyssey  which  is  printed  below.  To 
render  it  into  English  hexameter,  as  Dart  has  done 
with  a  beautiful  passage  from  the  Iliad,  in  the  version 
that  follows,  is  manifestly  inadequate  translation,  for 
it  substitutes  in  English  a  clumsy  accentual  metre  for 
what  was  in  Greek  a  flexible  quantitative  metre.  The 
three  succeeding  versions  will  show  three  different 
points  of  view,  each  of  which  has  decided  limitations. 
If  we  turn  the  passage  from  the  Odyssey  into  prose, 
however  rhythmical,  we  lose  much  of  the  musical 
charm  of  the  original.  Pope  gave  it  the  favorite 
metrical  form  of  his  day,  and  Worsley  a  form  which, 
though  archaic  in  its  association,  Spenser  has 
rendered  almost  as  familiar  to  us  as  the  hexameter 
was  to  the  Greeks.  Each  has  sacrificed  much ; 
which  least  it  must  be  left  to  each  student's  taste  to 
determine. 

id)    eupov  8'  iv  p-qaarjai  TtTvyfiiva  Sw/xaTa  K.LpKr]<i 
^ecTTOtcrtv  A.decro't,  TrtptcrKeTrra)  ivl  X^PV' 


22  TRANSLA  TION. 

a.fji.<fil  Se  fxiv  XvKOL  ^aav  opiarepoL  rjBk  Xeovres, 
Tovs  avrrj  KareOtX^cv.  cTret  kuko.  (jyap/xaK    eow/cev. 
ov8   01  y    ojpfji-^Orjcrav  irr'  avhpdcriv,  dAA    apa  rot  ye 
ovpfjcTLv  p^aKprjdi  TreptcrcraiVovres  dvearav. 
0)5  o   OT   av  afJi<f)l  avaKTa  Kvves  oaLTrjutv  lovra 
aaivMcr''    ahl  yap  re  <f)epci  p-eiXtyp-ara  Ovfxov' 
tSs  Tors  dficf)!  XvKOL  KpaTepwvv^es  rj^e  Xeovres 
aoLvov'   Tol  8    I'SSeicrai/,  CTret  i'oov  aivo,  TreAcopa. 
earav  8   iv  TrpoOvpoiat  6ea.^  KaXXnrXoKd[J.oLO, 
Kt'/DKTys  8    eVSoF  aKOvoi/  detooi)0'>^9  otti  KaXrj, 
laTov  tTTOt^o/xeVr^s  /Ae'yuv  dp^fSpoTov,  ola  Oedwv 
XcTTTa  T£  Kat  ^apUvTa  Kal  dyXaa  e/aya  TreAovrai. 

(9^/)'JJ^_)',  X.,  2IO-22I. 

(/;)    "  They,  all  flush'd  with  hope,  near  the  corpse-piled 

ridges  of  battle, 
Pass'd    thro'    the    livelong    night :  —  their   watch-fires 

sprinkled  the  darkness. 
As  when  the   moon  shines  full  in  the   sky; — and  in 

glory,  around  her, 
Glitter  the  stars  of   heaven  ;  no  breezes  to  ruffle  the 

stillness;  — 
But,  in  the  calm  clear  night,  long  ranges  of  hills,  and 

of  headlands, 
Forests,  and  all,  stand  out ;  —  and  the  pure  bright  aether 

above  them 
Deepens,  as  star  glimmers   out   upon   star;  —  and  the 

shepherd  rejoices  : 
Not  less  thick  in  the  space  'mid  the  fleet  and  the  stream 

of  the  Xanthus 
Glimmer 'd  the  watch-fire  lights  of  the  Trojans  fronting 

the  city. 


TRANSLA  TIOiV.  23 

There  were   a   thousand  bales   burning  bright   on   the 

plain  —  and  from  each  bale 
Flicker'd   the   light   on   the   armor   of  combatants  fifty 

around  it. 
Champing  the  pulse  and  barley,  in  long  rows  waited  the 

chargers, 
Tether'd  beside  their  cars,  and  expected  the  Morn  on 

her  bright  throne."  ^ 

Dart:    The  Iliad,  viii.,  553-65. 

{c)  "  In  the  forest  glades  they  found  the  halls  of  Circe 
builded,  of  polished  stone,  in  a  place  with  wide  prospect. 
And  all  around  the  palace  mountain-bred  wolves  and  lions 
were  roaming,  whom  she  herself  had  bewitched  with  evil 
drugs  that  she  gave  them.  Yet  the  beasts  did  not  set  on 
my  men,  but  lo,  they  ramped  about  them  and  fawned  on 
them,  wagging  their  long  tails.  And  as  when  dogs  fawn 
about  their  lord  when  he  comes  from  the  feast,  for  he 
always  brings  them  the  fragments  that  soothe  their  mood, 
even  so  the  strong-clawed  wolves  and  the  lions  fawned 
around  them  ;  but  they  were  affrighted  when  they  saw  the 
strange  and  terrible  creatures.  So  they  stood  at  the  outer 
gate  of  the  fair-tressed  goddess,  and  within  they  heard 
Circe  singing  in  a  sweet  voice,  as  she  fared  to  and  fro 
before  the  great  web  imperishable,  such  as  is  the  handi- 
work of  goddesses,  fine  of  woof  and  full  of  grace  and 

splendour." 

Butcher  and  Lang. 

1  Unfortunately  there  is,  so  far  as  I  know,  no  published  translation 
of  the  Odyssey  into  English  hexameter.  For  purposes  of  comparison 
I  have  therefore  inserted  a  fairly  typical  passage  from  a  hexameter 
translation  of  the  Iliad. 


24  TRANSLA  TION. 

{d)  "  The  palace  in  a  woody  vale  they  found, 

High  raised  of  stone  ;  a  shaded  space  around ; 

Where  mountain  wolves  and  brindled  lions  roam, 

(By  magic  tamed)  familiar  to  the  dome. 

With  gentle  blandishment  our  men  they  meet. 

And  wag  their  tails,  and  fawning  lick  their  feet. 

As  from  some  feast  a  man  returning  late, 

His  faithful  dogs  all  meet  him  at  the  gate. 

Rejoicing  round,  some  morsel  to  receive 

(Such  as  the  good  man  ever  used  to  give). 

Domestic  thus  the  grisly  beasts  drew  near  ; 

They  gaze  with  wonder  not  unmix'd  with  fear. 

Now  on  the  threshold  of  the  dome  they  stood. 

And  heard  a  voice  resounding  through  the  wood  : 

Placed  at  her  loom  within,  the  goddess  sung  ; 

The  vaulted  roofs  and  solid  pavement  rung. 

O'er  the  fair  web  the  rising  figures  shine. 

Immortal  labour  !  worthy  hand  divine." 

Pope. 

{e)    "  So  in  the  woods  the  house  they  found 

Of  Circe  ;  stone,  well-hewn,  and  on  conspicuous  ground. 

Wolves  of  the  mountain  all  around  the  way. 
And  lions,  softened  by  the  spells  divine. 
As  each  her  philters  had  partaken,  lay. 
These  cluster  round  the  men's  advancing  line 
Fawning  like  dogs,  who,  when  their  lord  doth  dine, 
Wait  till  he  issues  from  the  banquet-hall. 
And  for  the  choice  gifts  which  his  hands  assign 
Fawn,  for  he  ne'er  forgets  them  —  so  these  all 
Fawn  on  our  friends,  whom  much  the  unwonted  sights 
appall. 


TRANS  LA  TIOiV.  2  5 

Soon  at  her  vestibule  they  pause,  and  hear 
A  voice  of  singing  from  a  lovely  place, 
Where  Circe  weaves  her  great  web  year  by  year, 
So  shining,  slender,  and  instinct  with  grace, 
As  weave  the  daughters  of  immortal  race." 

WORSLEY. 

EXERCISE. 
I.    Translate  the  following  passages  :  — 

1.  "  Sed  quoniam  res  humanae  fragiles  caducaeque  sunt, 
semper  aliqui  anquirendi  sunt  qiros  diligamus  et  a  quibus 
diligamur :  caritate  enim  benevolentiaque  sublata  omnis 
est  e  vita  sublata  jucunditas.  Mihi  quidem  Scipio,  quam- 
quam  est  subito  ereptus,  vivit  tamen  semperque  vivet ; 
virtutem  enim  amavi  illius  vivi  quae  exstincta  non  est. 
Nee  mihi  soli  versatur  ante  oculos,  qui  illam  semper  in 
manibus  habui,  sed  etiam  posteris  erit  clara  et  insignis. 
Nemo  unquam  animo  aut  spe  majora  suscipiet  qui  sibi 
non  illius  memoriam  atque  imaginem  proponendam  putet. 
Equidem  ex  omnibus  rebus  quas  mihi  aut  fortuna  aut 
natura  tribuit,  nihil  habeo  quod  cum  amicitia  Scipionis 
possim  comparare.  In  hac  mihi  de  re  publica  consensus, 
in  hac  rerum  privatarum  consilium,  in  eadem  requies  plena 
oblectationis  fuit.  Nunquam  ilium  ne  minima  quidem  re 
offendi  quod  quidem  senserim  ;  nihil  audivi  ex  eo  ipse 
quod  nollem.  Una  domus  erat,  idem  victus  isque  com- 
munis ;  neque  militia  solum  sed  etiam  peregrinationes 
rusticationesque  communes.  Nam  quid  ego  de  studiis 
dicam  cognoscendi  semper  aliquid  atque  discendi,  in 
quibus  remoti  ab  oculis  populi  omne  otiosum  tempus  con- 
trivimus?     Quarum  rerum  recordatio  et  memoria  si  una 


26  TRA  NSLA  TION. 

cum  illo  occidisset,  desiderium  conjunctissimi  atque  aman- 
tissimi  viri  ferre  nullo  modo  possem.  Sed  nee  ilia  ex- 
stincta  sunt  alunturque  potius  et  augentur  cogitatione  et 
niemoria ;  et  si  illis  plane  orbatus  essem,  magnum  tamen 
afferret  mihi  aetas  ipsa  solatium,  diutius  enim  jam  in  hoc 
desiderio  esse  non  possum  :  omnia  autem  brevia  tolerabilia 
esse  debent  etiam  si  magna  sunt.  Haec  habui  de  amicitia 
quae  dicerem.  Vos  autem  hortor  ut  ita  virtutem  locetis, 
sine  qua  amicitia  esse  non  potest,  ut  ea  excepta  nihil 
amicitia  praestabilius  putetis." 

Cicero:   De  Aiiiiciiia,  Chap.  xxvn. 

2.  "  Integer  vitae  scelerisque  purus 

Non  eget  Mauris  jaculis,  neque  arcu, 
Nee  venenatis  gravida  sagittis, 

Fusee,  pharetra : 
Sive  per  Syrtes  iter  aestuosas, 
Sive  facturus  per  inhospitalem 
Caucasum,  vel  quae  loca  fabulosas 

Lambit  Hydaspes. 
Namque  me  silva  lupus  in  Sabina, 
Dum  meam  canto  Lalagen,  et  ultra 
Terminum  curis  vagor  expeditis, 

Fugit  inermem. 
Quale  portentum  neque  militaris 
Daunias  latis  alit  aesculetis. 
Nee  Jubae  tellus  generat,  leonum 

Arida  nutrix. 
Pone  me,  pigris  ubi  nulla  campis 
Arbor  aestiva  recreatur  aura, 
Quod  latus  mundi  nebulae  malusque 

Juppiter  urguet  ; 


TRANS  LA  TION.  2 "] 

Pone  sub  curru  nimium  propinqui 
Solis,  in  terra  domibus  negata : 
Dulce  ridentem  Lalagen  amabo, 
Dulce  loquentem," 

Horace:  OJes,  Book  I.,  Ode  22. 

3.  "  Tout  d'un  coup,  les  trompettes  sonnerent :  A 
cheval !  Et,  presque  aussitot,  une  autre  sonnerie  eclata : 
Sabre  k  la  main  ! 

"  Le  colonel  de  chaque  regiment  avait  deja  galope'. 
prenant  sa  place  de  bataille,  k  vingtcinq  metres  en  avant 
du  front.  Les  capitaines  e'taient  a  leur  poste,  en  tete  de 
leurs  hommes.  Et  I'attente  recommen9a,  dans  un  silence 
de  mort.  Plus  un  bruit,  plus  un  soufifle  sous  I'ardent 
soleil.  Les  cceurs  seuls  battaient.  Un  ordre  encore,  le 
dernier,  et  cette  masse  immobile  allait  s'ebranler,  se  ruer 
d'un  train  de  tempete. 

"  Mais,  a  ce  moment,  sur  la  crete  du  coteau,  un  officier 
parut,  k  cheval,  blesse',  et  que  deux  hommes  soutenaient. 
On  ne  le  reconnut  pas  d'abord.  Puis,  un  grondement 
s'eleva,  roula  en  une  clameur  furieuse.  C'etait  le  general 
Margueritte,  dont  une  balle  venait  de  traverser  les  joues, 
et  qui  devait  en  mourir.  II  ne  pouvait  parler,  il  agita  le 
bras,  la-bas,  vers  I'ennemi. 

"La  clameur  grandissait  toujours. 

" Notre  gene'ral.  .  .  .     Vengeons-le,  vengeons-le  ! 

"  Alors,  le  colonel  du  premier  regiment,  levant  en  I'air 
son  sabre,  cria  d'une  voix  de  tonnerre  :  — 

" Chargez  ! 


"  Les  trompettes  sonnaient,  la  masse  s'e'branla,  d'abord 
au  trot.  Prosper  se  trouvait  au  premier  rang,  mais 
presque  il  rextremitc  de  I'aile  droite.     Le  grand  danger 


28  TRANSLATION. 

est  au  centre,  oii  le  tir  de  Tennemi  s'acharne  d'instinct. 
Lorsqu'on  fut  sur  la  crete  du  calvaire  et  que  Ton  com- 
men9a  a  descendre  de  I'autre  cote,  vers  la  vaste  plaine,  il 
aperfut  tres  nettement,  a  un  millier  de  metres,  les  carres 
prussiens  sur  lesquels  on  les  jetait.  D'ailleurs,  il  trottait 
comme  dans  un  reve,  il  avait  une  legerete,  un  flottement 
d'etre  endormi,  un  vide  extraordinaire  de  cervelle,  qui  le 
laissait  sans  une  idee.  C'etait  la  machine  qui  allait,  sous 
une  impulsion  irresistible.  On  re'pe'tait :  '  Sentez  la  botte  ! 
sentez  la  botte  !  '  pour  serrer  les  rangs  le  plus  possible  et 
leur  donner  une  re'sistance  de  granit.  Puis,  a  mesure  que 
le  trot  s'accelerait,  se  changeait  en  galop  enrage,  les 
chasseurs  d'Afrique  poussaient,  a  la  mode  arabe,  des  cris 
sauvages,  qui  affolaient  leurs  montures.  Bientot,  ce  fut 
une  course  diabolique,  un  train  d'enfer,  ce  furieux  galop, 
ces  hurlements  fe'roces,  que  le  cre'pitement  des  balles  ac- 
compagnait  d"un  bruit  de  grele,  en  tapant  sur  tout  le 
metal,  les  gamelles,  les  bidons,  le  cuivre  des  uniformes  et 
des  harnais.  Dans  cette  grcle,  passait  I'ouragan  de  vent 
et  de  foudre  dont  le  sol  tremblait,  laissant  au  soleil  une 
odeur  de  laine  brule'e  et  de  fauves  en  sueur." 

Zola:  La  Debmlc,  p.  319. 

4.  "  Die  Lebensgeschichte  des  Immanuel  Kant  ist 
schwer  zu  beschreiben.  Denn  er  hatte  weder  Leben 
noch  Geschfchte.  Er  lebte  ein  mechanisch  geordnetes. 
fast  abstraktes  Hagestolzenleben  in  einem  stillen  abgele- 
genen  Gasschen  zu  Konigsberg,  einer  alten  Stadt  an  der 
nordostlichen  Grenze  Deutschlands.  Ich  glaube  nicht, 
dass  die  grosse  Uhr  der  dortigen  Kathedrale  leidenschaft- 
loser  und  regelmassiger  ihr  iiusseres  Tagewerk  vollbrachte, 
wie   ihr  Landsmann   Immanuel   Kant.     Aufstehn,   Kafife- 


TRANSLA  TIOA-.  29 

trinken,  Schreiben,  Kollegienlesen,  Essen,  Spazierengehn, 
Alles  hatte  seine  bestimmte  Zeit,  und  die  Nachbaren 
wussten  ganz  genau,  dass  die  Glocke  halb  vier  sei,  wenn 
Immanuel  Kant  in  seinem  grauen  Leibrock,  das  spanische 
Rohrchen  in  der  Hand,  aus  seiner  Hausthiire  trat,  und 
nach  der  kleinen  Lindenallee  wandelte,  die  man  seinet- 
wegen  noch  jetzt  den  Philosophengang  nennt.  Achtmal 
spazierte  er  dort  auf  und  ab,  in  jeder  Jahreszeit,  und 
wenn  das  Wetter  triibe  war  oder  die  grauen  Wolken  einen 
Regen  verkiindigten,  sah  man  seinen  Diener,  den  alten 
Lampe,  angstlich  besorgt  hinter  ihm  drein  wandeln  mit 
einem  langen  Regenschirm  unter  dem  Arm,  wie  ein  Bild 
der  Vorsehung. 

"  Sonderbarer  Kontrast  zwichen  dem  ausseren  Leben 
des  Mannes  und  seinen  zerstorenden,  weltzermalmenden 
Gedanken  !  Wahrlich,  batten  die  Biirger  von  Konigsberg 
die  ganze  Bedeutung  dieses  Gedankens  geahnt,  sie  wiirden 
vor  jenem  Manne  eine  weit  grauenhaftere  Scheu  em- 
pfunden  haben  als  vor  einem  Scharfrichter,  der  nur 
Menschen  hinrichtet  —  aber  die  guten  Leute  sahen  in 
ihm  nichts  Anderes  als  einen  Professor  der  Philosophie, 
und  wenn  er  zur  bestimmten  Stunde  vorbeiwandelte, 
griisster  sie  freundlich.  und  richteten  etvva  nach  ihm  ihre 

Taschenuhr."  Heine,  Znr  Geschichte  der  Religion  und 

Philosophie  in  Deutschlaiid. 

5.    "  Kennst  du  das  Land,  wo  die  Zitronen  bliihn, 

Im  dunkehi  Laub  die  Gold-Orangen  gliihn, 

Ein  sanfter  Wind  vom  blauen  Himmel  weht. 

Die  Myrte  still  und  hoch  der  Lorbeer  steht, 

Kennst  du  es  wohl  ? 

Dahin  !     Dahin 

Mocht'  ich  mit  dir.  ( )  mein  Geliebter.  ziehn  ! 


30  TRANSLA  T/OJV. 

"  Kennst  du  das  Haus  ?   Auf  Saulen  ruht  sein  Dach, 
Es  glanzt  der  Saal,  es  schimmert  das  Gemach, 
Und  Marmorbilder  stehn  und  sehn  mich  an  : 
Was  hat  man  dir,  du  armes  Kind,  gethan  ? 
Kennst  du  es  wohl  ? 

Dahin !     Dahin 
Mochf  ich  mit  dir,  O  mein  Beschiitzer,  ziehn  ! 

"  Kennst  du  den  Berg  und  seinen  Wolkensteg  ? 
Das  Maulthier  sucht  im  Nebel  seinen  Weg, 
In  Hohlen  wohnt  der  Drachen  alte  Brut ; 
Es  stiirzt  der  Fels  und  iiber  ihn  die  Fluth. 
Kennst  du  ihn  wohl  ? 

Dahin  !  Dahin 
Geht  unser  ^^'eg  !  O  Vater,  lass  uns  ziehn  !  " 

Goethe. 

II.  Compare  and  contrast  the  divergent  views  on 
translation  expressed  in  the  passages  given  below. 
With  which  do  vou  agree  .'* 

(a)  "  So  many  versions  of  the  Divine  Comedy  exist  in 
English  that  a  new  one  might  well  seem  needless.  But 
most  of  these  translations  are  in  verse,  and  the  intellec- 
tual temper  of  our  time  is  impatient  of  a  transmutation  in 
which  substance  is  sacrificed  for  form's  sake,  and  the  new 
form  is  itself  different  from  the  original.  The  conditions 
of  verse  in  different  languages  vary  so  widely  as  to  make 
any  versified  translation  of  a  poem  but  an  imperfect  re- 
production of  the  archetype.  It  is  like  an  imperfect  mir- 
ror that  renders  but  a  partial  likeness,  in  which  essential 
features  are  blurred  or  distorted.  .  .  .  Each  language 
exhibits  its  own  special  genius  in  its  poetic  forms.     Even 


TRANSLATION.  3 1 

when  they  are  closely  similar  in  rhythmical  method  their 
poetic  effect  is  essentially  different,  their  individuality  is 
distinct.  The  hexameter  of  the  Iliad  is  not  the  hexame- 
ter of  the  yE/ieid.  And  if  this  be  the  case  in  respect  to 
related  forms,  it  is  even  more  obvious  in  respect  to  forms 
peculiar  to  one  language,  like  the  tcrza  rhna  of  the  Italian, 
for  which  it  is  impossible  to  find  a  satisfactory  equivalent 
in  another  tongue. 

"  If,  then,  the  attempt  be  vain  to  reproduce  the  form  or 
to  represent  its  effect  in  a  translation,  yet  the  substance 
of  a  poem  may  have  such  worth  that  it  deserves  to  be 
known  by  readers  who  must  read  it  in  their  own  language 
or  not  at  all.  In  this  case  the  aim  of  the  translator 
should  be  to  render  the  substance  fully,  exactly,  and  with 
as  close  a  correspondence  to  the  tone  and  style  of  the 
original  as  is  possible  between  prose  and  poetry.  Of  the 
charm,  of  the  power  of  the  poem,  such  a  translation  can 
give  but  an  inadequate  suggestion ;  the  musical  bond  was 
of  its  essence,  and  the  loss  of  the  musical  bond  is  the  loss 
of  the  beauty  to  which  form  and  substance  mutually  con- 
tributed, and  in  which  they  were  both  alike  harmonized 
and  sublimated.  The  rhythmic  life  of  the  original  is  its 
vital  spirit,  and  the  translation  losing  this  vital  spirit  is 
at  best  as  the  dull  plaster  cast  to  the  living  marble  or  the 
breathing  bronze.  The  intellectual  substance  is  there  ; 
and  if  the  work  be  good,  something  of  the  emotional  qual- 
ity may  be  conveyed  ;  the  imagination  may  mould  the 
prose  as  it  moulded  the  verse,  —  but,  after  all,  '  transla- 
tions are  but  as  turn-coated  things  at  best,'  as  Howell 
said  in  one  of  his  Fa?niUar  Letters.'" 

C.  E.  Norton  :  Introduction  to  his  translation 
of  the  Divine  Comedy. 


32  TRANS  LA  TION. 

(J))  "  In  a  prose  translation  the  task  of  representing 
the  music  of  the  original  poem  is  not  attempted,  and  the 
only  problem  is  to  give  an  exact  equivalent  for  the  matter 
and  the  language  of  the  original.  Translations  of  the 
Commedia  of  this  kind  have  been  published  by  Dr.  Car- 
lyle,  by  Mr.  A.  J.  Butler,  and  Mr.  C.  E.  Norton.  In  these, 
if  an  opinion  may  be  offered,  Dr.  Carlyle's  version  may 
claim  to  be  the  more  literal,  because  of  its  greater  bold- 
ness in  substituting  for  modes  of  expression  natural  to 
the  Italian  language  their  appropriate  English  equivalent. 
But  prose  translation,  even  at  its  best,  leaves  half  the 
problem  unattempted ;  the  music,  the  cadences  of  the 
poem  are  lost.  Blank  verse,  such  as  Gary  and  Longfellow 
have  given,  is  little  better.  No  attempt  is  made  to  sat- 
isfy the  ear  with  any  effect  corresponding  to  that  produced 
by  Dante's  recurring  rimes  ;  and  in  those  parts  of  the 
poem  where  the  matter  is  less  elevated,  and  where  the 
diction  is  simple,  the  absence  of  rime  makes  the  trans- 
lation tedious." 

Shadwell:  Preface  to  his  translation 

of  the  Di''ine  Cpniedv. 


D  ESC  RIP  TION.  3  3 


CHAPTER    III. 

DESCRIPTION. 

1.  The  Uses  of  Description.  —  The  necessity  for  De- 
scription occurs,  as  a  rule,  under  three  kinds  of  cir- 
cumstances :  first  and  most  commonly,  in  what  may 
be  called  practical  matters,  when  an  engineer,  for 
example,  or  an  historian,  finds  it  advisable  to  impart 
information  in  regard  to  the  visible  aspects  of  per- 
sons or  objects  ;  secondly,  when  novelists  and  poets 
perform  a  similar  office  in  regard  to  the  creations  of 
their  imaginations  ;  thirdly,  when  in  the  course  of 
daily  communication  we  find  it  convenient  to  give  an 
account  of  the  impression  made  upon  us  by  some 
person  or  object  which  we  have  seen.  The  second 
situation,  that  of  the  novelist,  will  probably  rarely  or 
never  enter  the  personal  experience  of  most  of  us, 
though  of  course  any  one  of  us  is  continually  reading 
and  judging  imaginary  descriptions  made  by  other 
men  ;  the  first  we  may  all  of  us  at  one  time  or  an- 
other be  placed  in  ;  the  third  is  as  common  as  can 
well  be,  and  plays  a  large  part  in  ordinary  conversa- 
tion. 

2.  The  Natural  Method :  the  Photograph.  —  The  easiest 
way  to  reproduce  upon  another's  mind  the  impression 
made  upon  your  own  by  a  scene,  is  to  put  before  his 
eyes  a  picture  of  it.     Obviously  it  is  only  by  such 


34  DESCRIPTION. 

means  that  the  one  to  whom  you  are  addressing 
yourself  can  get  impressions  of  at  all  the  same  kind 
as  those  which  were  made  upon  your  retina.  In  a 
recent  magazine,  for  instance,  there  was  an  article  on 
renaissance  gardens  in  Italy.  The  text  was  dull  and 
technical,  and  in  general  failed  to  make  any  vivid  im- 
pression on  the  mind.  The  accompanying  illustra- 
tions, however,  were  such  perfect  representations  of 
the  gardens  in  question  that  after  some  study  of  them 
one  could  scarcely  resist  feeling  that  he  had  seen  the 
gardens  themselves.  In  the  same  way  architects 
and  engineers,  in  some  cases,  describe —  and  describe 
with  accuracy  and  completeness  —  a  house,  a  ma- 
chine, or  the  country  through  which  a  railroad  is  to 
pass,  by  photographs,  charts,  plans,  and  diagrams. 
Even  where  representation  of  that  sort  is  impossible 
or  inconvenient,  the  writer  who  has  to  deal  with  an 
intricate  subject  will  usually  find  it  to  his  advantage, 
wherever  it  is  possible,  to  insert  diagrams  or  illustra- 
tions. The  photograph,  or  pictorial  illustration  of 
any  sort,  is  certainly  superior  to  any  combination  of 
words  as  a  medium  of  description,  in  that  it  can  ap- 
peal to  the  eye  as  a  whole  and  in  an  instant.  It  is 
inferior  to  the  effects  that  language  can  produce,  how- 
ever, when  we  wish  to  call  attention  not  to  the  object 
as  a  whole  but  to  certain  special  aspects  or  charac- 
teristics of  the  object. 

3.    The  Inventory.  —  When  it  is  not  possible  to  de- 
scribe by  means  of  a  picture  —  and  of  course  it  is 


DESCRIPTION.  35 

usually  not  possible  —  the  natural  impulse  is  to  pro- 
duce what  might  be  called  an  inventory,  or,  in  other 
words,  a  detailed  account,  part  by  part,  of  the  person 
or  object  to  be  described.  The  following,  for  exam- 
ple, is  an  "  inventory  "  description  of  the  common 
robin,  Tiirdns  Americanns :  — 

"  Third  and  fourth  quills  about  equal,  fifth  a  little 
shorter,  second  longer  than  sixth ;  tail  slightly  rounded  ; 
above  olive-gray,  top  and  sides  of  the  head  black  ;  chin 
and  throat  white,  streaked  with  black ;  eyelids,  and  a  spot 
above  the  eye  anteriorly,  white ;  under  parts  and  inside  of 
the  wings  chestnut-brown ;  the  under  tail  coverts  with  tibice 
white,  showing  the  plumbeous  inner  portions  of  the  feath- 
ers ;  wings  dark-brown,  the  feathers  all  edged  more  or  less 
with  pale-ash ;  tail  still  darker,  the  extreme  feathers  tipped 
with  white  ;  bill  yellow,  dusky  along  the  ridge  and  at  the 
tip. 

"  Length,  nine  and  seventy-five  one-hundredths  inches ; 
wing,  five  and  forty-three  one-hundredths ;  tail,  four  and 
seventy -five  one-hundredths  inches;  tarsus,  one  and 
twenty-five  one-hundredths. 

"It  is  very  seldom  that  specimens  exhibit  the  colors 
exactly  as  described.  Nearly  always  in  winter,  and  in 
most  cases  at  other  times,  the  rufous  feathers  are  mar- 
gined with  whitish,  sometimes  quite  obscuring  the  color. 
The  black  feathers  of  the  head,  too,  have  brownish  edg- 
ings. The  white  spot  above  the  eye  sometimes  extends 
forwards  towards  the  nostrils,  but  is  usually  quite  re- 
stricted. The  white  patches  on  the  two  eyelids  are  sepa- 
rated from  each  other,  anteriorly  and  posteriorly." 

Samuels:    Bii-ds  of  N'ew  England. 


36  DESCRIPTION. 

Similar  descriptions  from  botany,  mineralogy,  or 
kindred  sciences  are  no  doubt  familiar  to  every  one 
of  us.  Their  purpose  is  sometimes  merely  that  of 
identification.  The  writer  is  satisfied  if  his  work  is 
used  only  for  reference,  when,  with  the  object  itself 
perhaps  at  hand,  the  reader  distinguishes  it  from 
other  species  of  the  same  genus  by  means  of  the 
elaborate  description  there  furnished.  In  many 
cases,  however,  —  that,  for  instance,  in  which  a  his- 
torian, in  order  to  pave  the  way  for  a  subsequent 
narrative,  undertakes  to  give  a  full  account  of  the 
locality  in  which  an  important  battle  was  fought,  — 
the  writer  really  wishes  to  make  the  reader  as  famil- 
iar with  the  persons  or  objects  in  question  as  if  he 
had  seen  them  himself.  And  here  also  description 
which  follows  the  inventory  method  may  be  appro- 
priate and  successful. 

4.  Description  by  Detail :  the  Beginning.  —  In  such 
cases  a  careful  method  is  absolutely  indispensable. 
We  cannot  begin  anywhere  and  end  anywhere.  We 
must  begin  at  a  point  where  the  reader's  knowledge 
will  touch  ours.  It  will  be  profitable  to  notice,  for 
example,  in  the  following  quotation  from  IvaiiJioe, 
how  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  describing  Sir  Brian  de 
Bois-Guilbert,  is  careful  at  the  outset  to  present  only 
his  more  obvious  physical  characteristics,  reserving 
the  more  particular  details  of  his  dress  and  bearing 
until  the  reader  is  sufficiently  familiar  with  the  rough 
sketch,  as  it  were,  of  the  person  whose  picture  the 
author  desires  to  fix  sharply  in  his  memory  :  — 


DESCRIPTION.  37 

"The  companion  of  the  church  dignitary  was  a  man 
past  forty,  thin,  strong,  tall,  and  muscular;  an  athletic 
figure  which  long  fatigue  and  constant  exercise  seemed 
to  have  left  none  of  the  softer  part  of  the  human  form, 
having  reduced  the  whole  to  brawn,  bones,  and  sinews, 
which  had  sustained  a  thousand  toils  and  were  ready  to 
dare  a  thousand  more.  His  head  was  covered  with  a 
scarlet  cap,  faced  with  fur,  —  of  that  kind  which  the 
French  call  morficr,  from  its  resemblance  to  the  shape 
of  an  inverted  mortar.  His  countenance  was  therefore 
fully  displayed,  and  its  expression  was  calculated  to 
impress  a  degree  of  awe,  if  not  of  fear,  upon  strangers. 
High  features,  naturally  strong  and  powerfully  expressive, 
had  been  burnt  almost  into  negro  blackness  by  con- 
stant exposure  to  the  tropical  sun,  and  might,  in  their 
ordinary  state,  be  said  to  slumber  after  the  storm  of 
passion  had  passed  away ;  but  the  projection  of  the  veins 
of  the  forehead,  the  readiness  with  which  the  upper  lip 
and  its  thick  black  mustaches  quivered  upon  the  slightest 
emotion,  plainly  intimated  that  the  tempest  might  be  again 
and  easily  awakened.  His  keen,  piercing,  dark  eyes  told 
in  every  glance  a  history  of  difficulties  subdued  and  dan- 
gers dared,  and  seemed  to  challenge  opposition  to  his 
wishes  for  the  pleasure  of  sweeping  it  from  his  road  by  a 
determined  exertion  of  courage  and  of  will  ;  a  deep  scar 
on  his  brow  gave  additional  sternness  to  his  countenance 
and  a  sinister  expression  to  one  of  his  eyes,  which  had 
been  slightly  injured  on  the  same  occasion,  and  of  which 
the  vision,  though  perfect,  was  in  a  slight  and  partial 
degree  distorted. 

"  The  upper  dress  of  this  personage  resembled  that  of 
his  companion  in  shape,  being  a  long  monastic  mantle; 


3  8  TRA  NSLA  TION. 

but  the  colour  being  scarlet  showed  that  he  did  not  belong 
to  any  of  the  four  regular  orders  of  monks.  On  the 
right  shoulder  of  the  mantle  there  was  cut,  in  white  cloth, 
a  cross  of  a  peculiar  form.  This  upper  robe  concealed 
what  at  first  view  seemed  rather  inconsistent  with  its 
form,  a  shirt,  namely,  of  linked  mail  with  sleeves  and 
gloves  of  the  same,  curiously  plaited  and  interwoven,  as 
flexible  to  the  body  as  those  which  are  now  wrought  in 
the  stocking-loom  out  of  less  obdurate  materials.  The 
forepart  of  his  thighs,  where  the  folds  of  his  mantle  per- 
mitted them  to  be  seen,  were  also  covered  with  linked 
mail ;  the  knees  and  feet  were  defended  by  splints,  or 
thin  plates  of  steel,  ingeniously  jointed  upon  each  other  ; 
and  mail  hose,  reaching  from  the  ankle  to  the  knee, 
effectually  protected  the  legs,  and  completed  the  rider's 
defensive  armour.  In  his  girdle  he  wore  a  long  and 
double-edged  dagger,  which  was  the  only  offensive  weapon 
about  his  person. 

"He  rode  not  a  mule,  like  his  companion,  but  a  strong 
hackney  for  the  road,  to  save  his  gallant  war-horse,  which 
a  squire  led  behind,  fully  accoutred  for  battle,  with  a 
chamfron  or  plaited  headpiece  upon  his  head,  having 
a  short  spike  projecting  from  the  front.  On  one  side 
of  the  saddle  hung  a  short  battle-axe,  richly  inlaid  with 
Damascene  carving;  on  the  other  the  rider's  plumed  head- 
piece and  hood  of  mail,  with  a  long  two-handed  sword 
used  by  the  chivalry  of  the  period.  A  second  squire 
held  aloft  his  master's  lance,  from  the  extremity  of  which 
fluttered  a  small  banderole  or  streamer,  bearing  a  cross 
of  the  same  form  with  that  embroidered  upon  his  cloak. 
He  also  carried  his  small  triangular  shield,  broad  enough 
at  the  top  to  protect  the  breast  and  from  thence  diminish- 


DESCRIPTION.  39 

ing  to  a  point.  It  was  covered  with  a  scarlet  cloth,  which 
prevented  the  device  from  being  seen." 

A  more  prosaic  example  of  the  same  principle, 
which  the  student  will  recognize  as  being  founded 
on  simple  common-sense,  is  furnished  by  the  open- 
ing paragraph  of  the  commissioners'  description  of 
the  Harvard  Bridge  across  the  Charles  River:  — 

"The  bridge  is  built  across  the  Charles  River,  and 
connects  West  Chester  Park  in  Boston  with  Front  Street 
in  Cambridge.  The  length  of  the  bridge  between  cen- 
tres of  bearings  on  abutments  is  2,164  feet  9  inches;  the 
distance  between  harbor  lines,  measured  at  the  centre 
line  of  the  bridge,  is  2,159  feet  453  inches;  the  width  of 
the  bridge,  excepting  at  and  near  the  draw,  is  69  feet 
4  inches,  measured  between  centres  of  railings,  this 
width  being  divided  into  one  roadway,  51  feet  wide,  and 
two  sidewalks,  each  9  feet  2  inches  wide.  The  draw  is 
48  feet  4  inches  wide  between  centres  of  railings,  the 
width  of  roadway  being  34  feet  6  inches,  and  the  width 
of  each  sidewalk  6  feet  1 1  inches.  The  elevations  of  the 
roadway  curb  above  Boston  City  base  are  2 1  feet  at  abut- 
ments, and  increase  to  29.5  feet  at  piers  6  and  7,  the 
bridge  being  level  between  these  two  piers." 

5.  Description  by  Detail :  the  Fundamental  Image.  —  It 

is  often  important  that  the  reader  should  be  able  from 
the  first  to  group  the  numerous  details  of  the  whole 
description  around  one  main  image,  giving  each  de- 
tail its  place  with  relation  to  a  simple  fundamental 
figure.     Notice,  for  instance,  the  way  in  which  Victor 


40  TRANSLA  TION. 

Hugo  begins  his  description  of  the  battle-field  at 
Waterloo,  and  the  familiar  figures  which  Carlyle  uses 
in  his  description  of  Silesia  :  — 

{a)  "  Those  who  would  get  a  clear  idea  of  the  battle 
of  Waterloo  have  only  to  lay  down  upon  the  ground  in 
their  mind  a  capital  A.  The  left  stroke  of  the  A  is  the 
road  from  Nivelles ;  the  right  stroke  is  the  road  from  Ge- 
nappe ;  the  cross  of  the  A  is  the  sunken  road  from  Ohain 
to  Braine  I'Alleud.  The  top  of  the  A  is  Mont  Saint  Jean  ; 
Wellington  is  there  :  the  left-hand  lower  point  is  Hou- 
gomot  ;  Reille  is  there,  with  Jerome  Bonaparte :  the  right 
hand  lower  point  is  La  Belle  Alliance  ;  Napoleon  is  there. 
A  little  below  the  point  where  the  cross  of  the  A  meets 
and  cuts  the  right  stroke  is  La  Haie  Sainte.  At  the  mid- 
dle of  this  cross  is  the  precise  point  where  the  final  battle- 
word  was  spoken.  There  the  lion  is  placed,  the  involun- 
tary symbol  of  the  supreme  heroism  of  the  Imperial  Guard. 
The  triangle  contained  at  the  top  of  the  A,  between  the 
two  strokes  and  the  cross,  is  the  plateau  of  Mont  Saint 
Jean.  The  struggle  for  this  plateau  was  the  whole  of  the 
battle." 

ih)  "  Schlesieri,  what  we  call  Silesia,  lies  in  elliptic 
shape,  spread  on  the  top  of  Europe,  partly  girt  with  moun- 
tains, like  the  crown  or  crest  to  that  part  of  the  earth  — 
highest  table-land  of  Germany  or  of  the  Cisalpine  countries, 
and  sending  rivers  into  all  the  seas.  ...  It  leans  sloping, 
as  we  hinted,  to  the  east  and  to  the  north  :  a  long  curved 
buttress  of  mountains  ('  Riesengebirge,'  Giant-Mountains, 
is  their  best-known  name  in  foreign  countries)  holding  it 
up   on    the  south   and  west  sides.     This  Giant-Mountain 


D  ESC  RIP  TION.  4 1 

range  .  .  .  shapes  itself  like  a  bill-hook  (or  elliptically,  as 
was  said)  :  handle  and  hook  together  may  be  some  two 
hundred  miles  in  length.  ...  A  very  pretty  ellipsis,  or 
irregular  oval,  on  the  summit  of  the  European  Continent, 
'  like  the  palm  of  a  left  hand  well  stretched  out,  with  the 
Riesengebirge  for  thumb  !  '  said  a  certain  Herr  to  me, 
stretching  out  his  arm  in  that  fashion  toward  the  north- 
west —  palm  well  stretched  out,  measuring  two  hundred 
and  fifty  miles,  and  the  crossway  one  hundred."  ^ 

6.  Plan :  Arrangement  and  Classification.  —  Not  less 
necessary  for  making  clear  the  details  of  an  elaborate 
description  than  the  devices  w^e  have  suggested  in 
the  last  two  sections  is  an  orderly  and  logical  arrange- 
ment of  the  subject-matter.  Notice,  for  example, 
how,  in  the  following  description  of  the  Rhines  vote- 
recording  machine,  the  details  are  divided  according 
to  their  character  into  two  main  groups,  and  arranged 
in  the  simple  and  logical  order  which  the  uses  of  the 
machine  at  once  suggest  :  — 

"  The  practical  machine  is  an  oblong  brass  box,  about 
10x14  inches,  six  inches  deep,  with  a  hinged  cover.  This 
box  is  placed  on  a  small  stand  in  the  rear  of  the  polling-room, 
and  in  plain  sight  of  the  judges  and  clerks  of  election. 
The  voter  is  identified  by  the  judges,  and  passes  into  the 
stall  where  the  machine  is.  On  raising  the  lid  of  the  box, 
a  screen  is  drawn  up  before  the  stall,  shutting  both  voter 
and  machine  from  view.  The  lid  when  raised  discloses 
a  number  of  keys  not  unlike  organ  stops.     There  are  as 

1  Both  (a)  and  (/^)  are  quoted  from  Genung's  Praclical  Rhetoric. 


42  DESCRIPTION. 

many  rows  of  keys  as  there  are  tickets  in  the  field,  and  as 
many  keys  in  a  row  as  there  are  offices  to  be  filled.  The 
printed  name  of  each  candidate  and  the  office  to  which 
he  aspires  are  placed  in  the  top  of  these  keys. 

"  The  elector  in  voting  presses  down  the  key  bearing 
the  name  of  the  candidate  he  wishes  to  support.  The 
key  remains  down.  In  being  depressed  it  has  locked  all 
"the  keys  of  other  candidates  to  the  same  office,  thus 
making  it  impossible  for  an  elector  to  vote  for  more  than 
one  candidate  to  the  same  office  ;  at  the  same  time  this 
key  has  imprinted  indelibly,  on  a  slip  of  paper  beneath, 
a  number  —  which  is  the  total  vote  cast  for  that  candi- 
date at  that  time.  The  elector  votes  for  each  of  the  other 
offices  in  turn,  in  the  same  way,  shuts  down  the  lid  of  the 
box,  thus  ringing  an  alarm  bell  and  dropping  the  screen 
in  front,  exposing  machine  and  voter  to  the  view  of  the 
judges.  The  box  lid  on  being  closed  liberates  all  the 
keys,  and  the  machine  is  ready  for  the  next  voter.'' 

The  N'ation,  April  i8,  1889,  pp.  326. 

7.  The  Defect  of  the  Method  of  Details.  —  The  great 
defect  of  the  method  of  describing  by  a  vast  number 
of  details  is  one  which  is  inherent  in  the  nature  of 
language.  Language  is  always  in  motion,  one  word 
following  another  in  time,  and  not  standing  contig- 
uous to  another  in  space  as  lines  and  colors  do  in  a 
picture.  Language,  therefore,  naturally  the  medium 
of  narration,  finds  difficulty  in  representing  objects 
at  rest.  To  make  this  difficulty  plain,  we  have  only 
to  consider  the  two  machines  which  we  actually  use, 
one  to  record  language,  the  other  to  represent  bodies 
at  rest,  —  the  phonograph  and   the   camera.     When 


DESCRIPTION.  43 

we  talk  into  the  phonograph,  it  is  necessary  to  keep 
the  cylinder  constantly  in  motion.  When  we  let  a 
scene  paint  itself  on  the  sensitive  surface  of  a  plate, 
it  is  indispensable  that  the  camera  be  perfectly 
still.  Now,  if  we  should  try  to  take  a  picture  with  a 
phonograph,  we  should  be  to  a  certain  degree  in  the 
position  of  a  man  trying  to  describe  an  object  at  rest 
by  language,  which  is  constantly  in  motion.  Ade- 
quately to  represent  an  object  at  rest  by  words, 
which  must  be  always  in  motion,  is  impossible,  for 
the  method  of  taking  the  object  bit  by  bit  will,  in  the 
greater  number  of  cases,  leave  a  confused  impression 
on  the  mind  of  the  reader,  who  will  almost  infallibly 
forget  at  the  twentieth  detail  what  the  fifth  and  the 
tenth  were.  Examine,  for  example,  the  following 
passage,  in  which  a  certain  Constantinus  Manasses 
undertook,  by  giving  a  pen-picture  of  Helen's  charms, 
to  eke  out  what  he  thought  Homer's  niggardliness 
of  description  :  — 

"  She  was  a  woman  right  beautiful,  with  fine  eyebrows, 
of  clearest  complexion,  beautiful  cheeks ;  comely,  with 
large  full  eyes,  with  snow-white  skin,  quick-glancing, 
graceful ;  a  grove  filled  with  graces,  fair-armed,  volup- 
tuous, breathing  beauty  undisguised.  The  complexion 
fair,  the  cheek  rosy,  the  countenance  pleasing,  the  eye 
blooming,  a  beauty  unartificial,  untinted,  of  its  natural 
color,  adding  brightness  to  the  brightest  cherry,  as  if  one 
should  dye  ivory  with  resplendent  purple.  Her  neck 
long,  of  dazzling  whiteness  ;  whence  she  was  called  the 
swan-born,  beautiful  Helen." 


44  DESCRIPTION. 

Who  can  so  piece  and  patch  together  this  mass 
of  details  as  to  form  in  his  mind  a  distinct  image  of 
Helen's  beauty  ?  P'ar  better,  in  many  cases,  than  a 
large  list  of  details,  even  if  they  be  well  classified  and 
arranged,  is  a  carefully  selected  group  of  aspects  or 
characteristics.  The  principle  of  selection,  which 
we  are  now  to  consider,  is  really  the  same  great 
principle  of  method  in  composition  which  we  touched 
on  in  the  Introduction.  To  select  from  all  that  we 
might  say  of  the  object,  just  what  our  specific  idea  of 
the  object  allows,  what  our  specific  purpose  requires, 
and  what  our  specific  audience  can  understand  and 
appreciate,  is  a  much  surer  way  to  impress  a  distinct 
image  on  the  reader's  mind  than  that  of  the  mere 
inventory. 

8.  The  Principle  of  Selection.  —  We  must  make  up 
our  minds,  then,  what  are  the  salient  points  of  an 
object,  and  give  those  alone.  Granted  the  main 
features  of  the  object  described,  the  reader  can 
build  up  a  conception  of  the  whole  object  for  him- 
self. Here,  for  example,  is  a  bit  of  description 
from  Felix  Holt :  — 

"  She  [the  heroine]  had  time  to  remark  that  he  [the 
hero]  was  a  peculiar-looking  person,  but  not  insignificant, 
which  was  the  quality  that  most  hopelessly  consigned  a 
man  to  perdition.  He  was  massively  built.  The  striking 
points  in  his  face  were  large,  clear,  gray  eyes  and  full 
lips." 

This    description,    as    George    Eliot  herself   says, 


DESCRIPTION.  45 

merely  presents  some  "striking  points  "  of  the  ob- 
ject described  ;  it  selects  these  points  because  they 
are  striking.  A  more  nice  selection  may  choose 
only  such  points  of  an  object  as  will  bring  out  its 
general  character.  Tennyson,  for  instance,  in  his 
poem  called  Mariana,  selects  only  such  details  of  the 
scene  as  will  bring  up  in  the  reader's  mind  the  gen- 
eral sense  of  Mariana'^s  great  loneliness.  Mariana  is 
alone  in  her  "moated  grange,"  waiting  for  her  lover, 
who  will  never  come  back  to  her.  The  grange  is 
itself  ruinous,  deserted. 

"  With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 

Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all : 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  pear  to  the  gable-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  look'd  sad  and  strange  : 

Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch  ; 

Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange." 

At  night  Mariana  lies   sleepless,    lonely,   seeking 
company  even  in  the  poplar-tree  outside  her  window. 

"  And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low. 

And  wild  wands  bound  within  their  cell. 

The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 


46  description: 

She  only  said,  'The  night  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,'  she  said; 
She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead !  '  " 

In  the  long  days  her  loneliness  makes  every  tiny 
sound  jar  upor  her,  or  seem  like  voices  of  old  friends. 

"  All  day  within  the  dreamy  house. 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd ; 
The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane  ;  the  mouse 

Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shriek'd, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 
Old  faces  glimmer'd  thro'  the  doors. 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors. 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 
She  only  said,  '  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said  ; 
She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  ' 

"  The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof. 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense  ;  but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 
When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 
Then,  said  she,  '  I  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,'  she  said  ; 
She  wept,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
Oh  God,  that  I  were  dead  ! '  " 


DESCKIPTIOX.  47 

All  the  details  in  Mariana  are  thus  selected  sim- 
ply to  bring  out  Mariana's  loneliness.  We  may  for- 
get the  details,  but  only  after  they  have  done  their 
work,  produced  precisely  the  effect  which  Tennyson 
desired.^ 

Description  by  selection  may  go  farther  still.  In- 
stead of  presenting  several  important  traits,  or  a  sin- 
gle important  trait,  of  an  object,  many  writers  try  to 
sum  up  an  entire  object  in  one  grand  characteristic 
trait.  Dickens  is  particularly  fond  of  this  method. 
Notice,  for  example,  the  following  passage  from 
Martiji  Chnzslczvit,  introducing  the  "  shabby-gen- 
teel"  Mr.  Tigg:  — 

"  The  gentleman  was  of  that  order  of  appearance 
which  is  currently  termed  shabby-genteel,  though  in 
respect  of  his  dress  he  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  been 
in  any  extremities,  as  his  fingers  were  a  long  way  out  of 
his  gloves,  and  the  soles  of  his  feet  were  at  an  inconven- 
ient distance  from  the  upper  leather  of  his  boots.  His 
nether  garments  were  of  a  bluish  grey — ^  violent  in  its 
colours  once,  but  sobered  now  by  age  and  dinginess  — 
and  were  so  stretched  and  strained  in  a  tough  conflict 
between  his  braces  and  his  straps,  that  they  appeared 
every  moment  in  danger  of  flying  asunder  at  ihe  knees. 
His  coat,  in  colour  blue  and  of  a  military  cut,  was  buttoned 
and  frogged  up  to  his  chin.  His  cravat  was,  in  hue  and 
pattern,  like  one  of  those  mantles  which  hairdressers  are 

^  For  a  long  and  elaborate  description  of  the  same  kind,  read 
Edgar  Allan  Poe's  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher.  It  is  a  long  insistence 
on  the  mood  of  terror. 


48  DESCRIPTION. 

accustomed  to  wrap  about  their  clients,  during  the  prog- 
ress of  the  professional  mysteries.  His  hat  had  arrived 
at  such  a  pass  that  it  would  have  been  hard  to  determine 
whether  it  was  originally  white  or  black.  But  he  wore  a 
moustache — a  shaggy  moustache  too:  nothing  in  the 
meek  and  merciful  way,  but  quite  in  the  fierce  and  scorn- 
ful style  —  the  regular  Satanic  sort  of  thing  ;  and  he  wore, 
besides,  a  vast  quantity  of  unbrushed  hair.  He  was  very 
dirty  and  very  jaunty ;  very  bold  and  very  mean  ;  very 
swaggering  and  very  slinking  ;  very  much  like  a  man  who 
might  have  been  something  better,  and  unspeakably  like 
a  man  who  deserved  to  be  something  worse." 

9.    Description  by  Exaggeration    of    a   Single  Trait.  — 

Carried  to  an  extreme,  —  that  is,  to  the  exaggeration 
of  a  single  trait  or  characteristic,  —  the  method  of 
selection  thus  becomes  the  chief  instrument  of  satire 
and  caricature,  or  of  descriptions  like  those  which 
Poe  made  use  of  to  produce  his  peculiarly  striking 
effects  of  horror.  His  nightmare  story,  King  Pest, 
will  illustrate  the  point  in  question.  The  scene  is 
laid  in  England,  in  1349,  the  year  of  the  Black 
Plague,  when  fifty  thousand  persons  are  said  to 
have  died  in  London  alone.  Two  seamen,  somewhat 
drunk,  stumble  upon  a  merrymaking  of  the  spirits 
of  the  plague.  The  portraits  of  two  of  these  hob- 
goblins Poe  paints  as  follows  :  — 

"  Fronting  the  entrance,  and  elevated  a  little  above 
his  companions,  sat  a  personage  who  appeared  to  be  the 
president  of  the  table.     His  stature  was  gaunt  and  tall, 


DESCRIPTION.  ■  49 

and  Legs  was  confounded  to  behold  in  him  a  figure  more 
emaciated  than  himself.  His  face  was  as  yellow  as 
saffron  —  but  no  feature,  excepting  one  alone,  was  suffi- 
ciently marked  to  merit  a  particular  description.  This 
one  consisted  in  a  forehead  so  unusually  and  hideously 
lofty  as  to'  have  the  appearance  of  a  bonnet  or  crown  of 
flesh  superadded  upon  the  natural  head.  His  mouth  was 
puckered  and  dimpled  into  an  expression  of  ghastly  afi:a- 
bility,  and  his  eyes,  as  indeed  the  eyes  of  all  at  table, 
were  glazed  over  with  the  fumes  of  intoxication.  This 
gentleman  was  clothed  from  head  to  foot  in  a  richly 
embroidered  black  silk-velvet  pall,  wrapped  negligently 
around  his  form  after  the  fashion  of  a  Spanish  cloak. 
His  head  was  stuck  full  of  sable  hearse-plumes,  which 
he  nodded  to  and  fro  with  a  jaunty  and  knowing  air ; 
and  in  his  right  hand  he  held  a  huge  human  thigh-bone, 
with  which  he  appeared  to  have  been  just  knocking  down 
some  member  of  the  company  for  a  song. 

"  Opposite  him,  and  with  her  back  to  the  door,  was  a 
lady  of  no  whit  the  less  extraordinary  character.  Although 
quite  as  tall  as  the  person  just  described,  she  had  no 
right  to  complain  of  his  unnatural  emaciation.  She  was 
evidently  in  the  last  stage  of  a  dropsy ;  and  her  figure 
resembled  nearly  that  of  the  huge  puncheon  of  October 
beer  which  stood,  with  its  head  driven  in,  close  by  her  side, 
in  a  corner  of  the  chamber.  Her  face  was  exceedingly 
round,  red,  and  full ;  and  the  same  peculiarity,  or  rather 
want  of  peculiarity,  attached  itself  to  her  countenance 
which  is  before  mentioned  in  the  case  of  the  president  — 
that  is  to  say,  only  one  feature  of  her  face  was  sufficiently 
distinguished  to  need  a  separate  characterization  :  in- 
deed, the  acute  Tarpaulin  immediately  observed  that  the 


50  DESCRIPTION. 

same  remark  might  have  applied  to  each  individual 
person  of  the  party,  every  one  of  whom  seemed  to  pos- 
sess a  monopoly  of  some  particular  portion  of  physiog- 
nomy. With  the  lady  in  question  this  portion  proved  to 
be  the  mouth.  Commencing  at  the  right  ear,  it  swept 
with  a  terrific  chasm  to  the  left,  the  short  pendants  which 
she  wore  in  either  auricle  continually  bobbing  into  the 
aperture.  She  made,  however,  every  exertion  to  keep 
her  mouth  closed  and  look  dignified,  in  a  dress  consisting 
of  a  newly  starched  and  ironed  shroud  coming  up  close 
under  her  chin,  with  a  crimpled  ruffle  of  cambric  muslin." 

10.    Description  by  a  Single  Trait:  the  Epithet.  —  The 

method  of  description  by  the  selection  of  a  single 
trait  need  not  necessarily  have  the  effect  of  satire 
or  caricature,  or  even  a  grotesque  effect.  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne  describes  M^ith  vividness  when  he  speaks 
of  the  "  black,  moody  brow  of  Septimius  Felton." 
Homer  frequently  reduces  description  to  a  single 
epithet, — to  the  constant  epithet.  "The  well- 
greaved  Achaians,"  "far-darting  Apollo,"  "swift- 
footed  Achilles,"  "  wide-ruling  Agamemnon,"  "  white- 
armed  Hera,"  "  aegis-bearing  Zeus,"  "  bright-eyed 
Athene,"  "  crafty  Ulysses," — all  these  arc  but  ex- 
amples of  description  by  exhaustive  selection.  Here, 
however,  we  reach  .a  point  where  we  accomplish  our 
purpose  of  calling  up  a  picture  of  a  person  or  object 
in  the  reader's  mind,  no  longer  by  a  host  of  details, 
but  by  a  single  detail,  that  is,  by  suggestion  rather 
than  by  simple  assertion.  We  must  now  consider 
in  detail  the  method  of  describing  by  suggestion. 


DESCRIPTION.  5 1 

11.  The  Principle  of  Suggestion.  —  So  far  we  have 
been  considering  the  practical  side  of  the  art  of  de- 
scription ;  that  is,  how  by  stating  a  certain  number 
of  traits  or  characteristics  in  regard  to  an  object  we 
can  impress  upon  the  reader's  understanding  some- 
thing like  a  complete  notion  of  it.  Another  solution 
of  the  problem  of  how  best  to  describe  is  more  a 
matter  of  art,  for  it  appeals  to  the  imagination  rather 
than  to  the  understanding.  It  tries  to  call  up  a 
picture  before  us;  it  tries  to  suggest  to  us  the  nature 
of  an  object  which,  it  may  be,  we  have  neither  seen 
nor  shall  see  ;  tries  to  make  glow  in  our  imaginations 
"the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  and  land;"  tries, 
in  fine,  not  merely  to  give  the  dead  facts  in  regard 
to  a  person  or  object,  but  to  produce  the  illusion  of 
seeing  it ;  not  merely  to  identify  it,  but  to  inter- 
pret it. 

For  this  purpose  language  is  not  without  resources. 
The  practical  disadvantage  of  verbal  description,  as 
we  have  seen,  lies  in  its  inability  to  present  its  results 
at  a  glance  of  the  eye,  and  the  necessity  of  subjecting 
them,  on  account  of  the  very  nature  of  language,  to 
a  process  of  co-ordination  on  the  part  of  the  under- 
standing which  is  decidedly  wasteful  of  the  attention. 
Its  practical  advantage,  on  the  other  hand,  lies  in  its 
power  to  select  from  the  details  pertaining  to  the 
whole  object,  special  traits,  — a  privilege  which  paint- 
ing scarcely  possesses.  The  great  artistic  value  of 
the  method  of  suggestion,  on  the  other  hand,  lies  in 
its  power  to  express  the  mobile,  changeable  quality  of 


5  2  D  ESC  RIP  TIOjY. 

persons  or  objects,  which  we  call  charm  or  ugliness. 
Language,  being  itself  in  motion,  has  an  inherent 
capacity  for  building  up  pictures  in  the  imagination 
by  successive  suggestions.  By  virtue  of  the  power  of 
connotation  which  words  possess,^  language  can  often 
suggest  in  an  instant  a  picture  which  it  could  produce 
by  explicit  description  only  at  great  expense  of  time 
and  means. 

12.  Methods  of  Suggestion.  —  To  suggest  charm  or 
hatefulness,  we  habitually  make  use,  as  a  rule,  of 
one  of  three  devices  :  (i)  we  say  that  the  object  is 
like  something  else,  or  (2)  we  tell  what  we  feel  when 
we  see  the  object  we  wish  to  describe,  or  (3)  we  tell 
what  actual  actions  of  the  person  or  object  make  it 
charming  or  hateful.  Notice,  for  instance,  how  these 
methods  are  employed  in  the  following  passages  :  — 

{a)  "  Now  the  woful  notes  begin  to  make  themselves 
heard;  now  am  I  come  where  much  lamentation  smites 
me.  I  had  come  into  a  place  mute  of  all  light,  that  bel- 
lows as  the  sea  does  in  a  tempest,  if  it  is  combated  by 
opposing  winds.  The  infernal  hurricane  that  never  rests 
carries  along  the  spirits  in  its  rapine  ;  whirling  and  smit- 
ing it  molests  them.  When  they  arrive  before  its  rushing 
blast,  here  are  shrieks,  and  bewailing,  and  lamenting ; 
here  they  blaspheme  the  power  divine.  I  understood 
that  unto  such  torment  are  condemned  the  carnal  sinners 
who  subject  reason  unto  lust.  And  as  their  wings  bear 
along  the  starlings  in  the  cold  season  in  a  troop  large  and 
full,  so  that  blast  the  evil  spirits  ;  hither,  thither,  down, 

1  See  above,  page  i8,  note  i. 


DESCRIPTION.  53 

up  it  carries  them  ;  no  hope  ever  comforts  them,  not  of 
repose,  but  even  of  less  pain, 

"  And  as  the  cranes  go  singing  their  lays,  making  in 
air  a  long  line  of  themselves,  so  saw  I  come,  uttering 
wails,  shades  borne  along  by  the  aforesaid  strife.  Where- 
fore I  said,  '  Master,  who  are  those  folk  whom  the  black 
air  so  castigates  ?'...'  Helen  thou  seest,  for  whom 
so  long  a  time  of  ill  revolved  ;  and  thou  seest  the  great 
Achilles,  who  at  the  end  fought  with  love.  Thou  seest 
Paris,  Tristan,  —  '  and  more  than  a  thousand  shades  he 
showed  me  with  his  finger,  and  named  them,  whom  love 
had  parted  from  our  life. 

"  After  I  had  heard  my  Teacher  name  the  dames  of 
eld  and  the  cavaliers,  pity  overcame  me,  and  I  was  well 
nigh  bewildered.  I  began,  '  Poet,  willingly  would  I  speak 
with  those  two  that  go  together,  and  seem  to  be  so  light 
upon  the  wind.'  And  he  to  me,  '  Thou  shalt  see  when 
they  shall  be  nearer  to  us,  and  do  thou  then  pray  them 
by  that  love  which  leads  them,  and  they  will  come.'  Soon 
as  the  wind  sways  them  toward  us  I  lifted  my  voice,  '  O 
weary  souls,  come  speak  to  us,  unless  Someone  forbids  it.' 

"As  doves,  called  by  desire,  with  wings  open  and 
steady,  fly  through  the  air  to  their  sweet  nest,  borne  by 
their  will,  these  issued  from  the  troop  where  Dido  is, 
coming  to  us  through  the  malign  air,  so  strong  was  the 
compassionate  cry."  Norton:  Hell,  canto  v. 

{b)   "  But  I,  that  am  not  shap'd  for  sportive  tricks, 
Nor  made  to  court  an  amorous  looking-glass  ; 
I,  that  am  rudely  stamp'd,  and  want  love's  majesty 
To  strut  before  a  wanton  ambling  nymph  ; 
I,  that  am  curtail'd  of  this  fair  proportion. 


54  DESCRIPTION. 

Cheated  of  feature  by  dissembling  nature, 
Deform'd,  unfinish'd,  sent  before  my  time 
Into  this  breathing  world,  scarce  half  made  up, 
And  that  so  lamely  and  unfashionable 
That  dogs  bark  at  me  as  I  halt  by  them  ;  — 
Why,  I,  in  this  weak  piping  time  of  peace, 
Have  no  delight  to  pass  aw^ay  the  time, 
Unless  to  see  my  shadow  in  the  sun. 
And  descant  on  mine  own  deformity : 
And  therefore,  since  I  cannot  prove  a  lover, 
To  entertain  these  fair  well-spoken  days, 
I  am  determined  to  prove  a  villain. 
And  hate  the  idle  pleasures  of  these  days." 

King  Richard  III.,  Act  I.,  Scene  i. 

13.  The  Pathetic  Fallacy  and  Its  Abuse.  —  The  method 
of  suggestion  is  apt  to  lead  the  imaginative  person 
into  a  manner  of  expression  or  a  state  of  mind  that 
attributes  to  inanimate  objects  the  actions  or  quali- 
ties of  human  creatures.  In  some  cases  such  a  man- 
ner of  expression  is  appropriate  and  effective  ;  in 
others  it  is  weak  and  misleading.  Ruskin  has  styled 
the  natural  and  appropriate  use  of  these  anthropo- 
morphic figures  of  speech  the  Pathetic  Fallacy,  for 
a  reason  which  the  derivation  of  the  word  "pathetic  " 
makes  evident.  Ruskin's  statement,  which  has  be- 
come famous,  of  the  principle  on  which  he  believes 
the  effective  use  of  the  pathetic  fallacy  is  based,  we 
shall  give  in  his  own  words  :  — 

"  Of  the  cheating  of  the  fancy  we  shall  have  to  speak 
presendy;    but,   in  this  chapter,  I   want  to   examine  the 


DESCRIPTION.  55 

nature  of  the  other  error,  that  which  the  mind  admits, 
when  affected  strongly  by  emotion.  Thus,  for  instance, 
in  Alton  Locke  :  — 

'  They  rowed  her  in  across  the  roIHng  foam  — 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam.'' 

The  foam  is  not  cruel,  neither  does  it  crawl.  The  state 
of  mind  which  attributes  to  it  these  characters  of  a  living 
creature  is  one  in  which  the  reason  is  unhinged  by  grief. 
All  violent  feelings  have  the  same  effect.  They  produce 
in  us  a  falseness  in  all  our  impressions  of  external  things, 
which  I  would  generally  characterize  as  the  '  Pathetic 
Fallacy.' 

"  Now  we  are  in  the  habit  of  considering  this  fallacy 
as  eminently  a  character  of  poetical  description,  and  the 
temper  of  mind  in  which  we  allow  it,  as  one  eminently 
poetical,  because  passionate.  But,  I  believe,  if  we  look 
well  into  the  matter,  we  shall  find  the  greatest  poets  do 
not  often  admit  this  kind  of  falseness,  —  that  it  is  only 
the  second  order  of  poets  who  much  delight  in  it. 

"  Thus,  when  Dante  describes  the  spirits  falling  from 
the  bank  of  Acheron  '  as  dead  leaves  flutter  from  a 
bough,'  he  gives  the  most  perfect  image  possible  of  their 
utter  lightness,  feebleness,  passiveness,  and  scattering 
agony  of  despair,  without,  however,  for  an  instant  losing 
his  own  clear  perception  that  these  are  souls,  and  those  are 
leaves :  he  makes  no  confusion  of  one  with  the  other. 
But  when  Coleridge  speaks  of 

'  The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can,' 

he  has  a  morbid,  that  is  to  say,  a  so  far  false,  idea  about 
the  leaf :  he  fancies  a  life  in  it,  and  will,  which  there  are 


5  6  D  ESC  RIP  TION. 

not ;  confuses  its  powerlessness  with  choice,  its  fading 
death  with  merriment,  and  tlie  wind  that  shakes  it  with 
music.  Here,  however,  there  is  some  beauty,  even  in  the 
morbid  passage ;  '  but  take  an  instance  in  Homer  and 
Pope.  Without  the  knowledge  of  Ulysses,  Elpenor,  his 
youngest  follower,  has  fallen  from  an  upper  chamber  in 
the  Circean  palace,  and  has  been  left  dead,  unmissed  by 
his  leader,  or  companions,  in  the  haste  of  their  departure. 
They  cross  the  sea  to  the  Cimmerian  land ;  and  Ulysses 
summons  the  shades  from  Tartarus.  The  first  which  ap- 
pears is  that  of  the  lost  Elpenor.  Ulysses,  amazed,  and 
in  exactly  the  spirit  of  bitter  and  terrified  lightness  which 
is  seen  in  Hamlet,  addresses  the  spirit  with  the  simple, 
startled  words  :  — 

'  Elpenor  !    How  earnest  thou  under  the  Shadowy  darkness  ? 
Hast  thou  come  faster  on  foot  than  I  in  my  black  ship  ? ' 

Which  Pope  renders  thus  :  — 

'O,  say,  what  angry  power  Elpenor  led 
To  glide  in  shades,  and  wander  with  the  dead? 
How  could  thy  soul,  by  realms  and  seas  disjoined, 
Outfly  the  nimble  sail,  and  leave  the  lagging  wind.'' ' 

I  sincerely  hope  the  reader  finds  no  pleasure  here,  either 
in  the  nimbleness  of  the  sail,  or  the  laziness  of  the  wind! 
And  yet  how  is  it  that  these  conceits  are  so  painful  now, 
when  they  have  been  pleasant  to  us  in  the  other  in- 
stances ? 

"  For  a  very  simple  reason.  They  are  not  a  pathetic 
fallacy  at  all,  for  they  are  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  wrong 
passion  —  a  passion  which  never  could  possibly  have 
spoken  them  —  agonized  curiosity.  Ulysses  wants  to 
know  the  facts  of  the  matter ;  and  the  last  thing  his  mind 


DESCRIPTION.  5  7 

could  do  at  the  moment  would  be  to  pause,  or  suggest  in 
any  wise  what  was  not  a  fact.  The  delay  in  the  first  three 
lines,  and  conceit  in  the  last,  jar  upon  us  instantly,  like 
the  most  frightful  discord  in  music.  No  poet  of  true 
imagination  could  possibly  have  written  the  passage. 

"  Therefore,  we  see  that  the  spirit  of  truth  must  guide 
us  in  some  sort,  even  in  our  enjoyment  of  fallacy.  Col- 
eridge's fallacy  has  no  discord  in  it,  but  Pope  has  set  our 
teeth  on  edge.  Without  further  questioning,  I  will  en- 
deavor to  state  the  main  bearings  of  this  matter. 

"  The  temperament  which  admits  the  pathetic  fallacy, 
is,  as  I  said  above,  that  of  a  mind  and  body  in  some  sort 
too  weak  to  deal  fully  with  what  is  before  them  or  upon 
them  ;  borne  away,  or  over-clouded,  or  over-dazzled  by  emo- 
tion ;  and  it  is  a  more  or  less  noble  state,  according  to  the 
force  of  the  emotion  which  has  induced  it.  For  it  is  no 
credit  to  a  man  that  he  is  not  morbid  or  inaccurate  in  his 
perceptions,  when  he  has  no  strength  of  feeling  to  warp 
them  ;  and  it  is  in  general  a  sign  of  higher  capacity  and 
stand  in  the  ranks  of  being,  that  the  emotions  should  be 
strong  enough  to  vanquish,  partly,  the  intellect,  and  make 
it  believe  what  they  choose.  But  it  is  still  a  grander  con- 
dition when  the  intellect  also  rises,  till  it  is  strong  enough 
to  assert  its  rule  against,  or  together  with,  the  utmost 
efforts  of  the  passions;  and  the  whole  man  stands  in  an 
iron  glow,  white  hot,  perhaps,  but  still  strong,  and  in  no 
wise  evaporating  ;  even  if  he  melts,  losing  none  of  his 
weight. 

"  So,  then,  we  have  the  three  ranks  :  the  man  who  per- 
ceives rightly,  because  he  does  not  feel,  and  to  whom 
the  primrose  is  very  accurately  the  primrose,  because  he 
does  not  love  it ;  then,  secondly,  the  man  who  perceives 


58  DESCRIPTION. 

wrongly,  because  he  feels,  and  to  whom  the  primrose  is 
anything  else  than  a  primrose  :  a  star,  a  sun,  or  a  fairy's 
shield,  or  a  forsaken  maiden.  And,  lastly,  there  is  the 
man  who  perceives  rightly  in  spite  of  his  feelings,  and  to 
whom  the  primrose  is  forever  nothing  else  than  itself —  a 
little  flower,  apprehended  in  the  very  plain  and  leafy  fact 
of  it,  whatever  and  how  many  soever  the  associations  and 
passions  may  be,  that  crowd  around  it.  And,  in  general, 
these  three  classes  may  be  rated  in  comparative  order,  as 
the  men  who  are  not  poets  at  all,  and  the  poets  of  the 
second  order,  and  the  poets  of  the  first ;  only,  however 
great  a  man  may  be,  there  are  always  some  subjects  which 
ought  to  throw  him  off  his  balance  ;  some,  by  which  his 
poor  human  capacity  of  thought  should  be  conquered,  and 
brought  into  the  inaccurate  and  vague  state  of  perception, 
so  that  the  language  of  the  highest  inspiration  becomes 
broken,  obscure,  and  wild  in  metaphor,  resembling  that 
of  the  weaker  man,  overborne  by  weaker  things." 

Modern  Painters,  vol.  iii. 

14.  Description  by  Means  of  Narration.  —  A  second  ar- 
tistic solution  of  the  problem  of  description  is  to 
suggest  the  nature  of  an  object  by  telling  a  story 
about  it.  The  handling  of  this  method,  however, 
obviously  pertains  to  the  subject  of  narration,  v^hich 
we  shall  consider  in  the  next  chaptei\  Identical  in 
principle  is  the  useful  device  by  which  motion  is  in- 
troduced into  description.  A  typical  instance  would 
be  one  in  which  a  battlefield  is  described  by  an 
observer  who  walks  from  one  part  of  the  scene  to 
another,  narrating  what  he  sees  in  whatever  sequence 
is  most  convenient  for  the  grouping  of  the  indispen- 
sable details. 


DESCRIPTION.  59 


EXERCISE. 

1.    Examine  the  following  descriptions,  analyzing 
the  means  employed  in  each  :  — 

1.  "  Canst  thou  draw  out  leviathan  with  an  hook  ?  or 
his  tongue  with  a  cord  which  thou  lettest  down  ?  Canst 
thou  put  an  hook  into  his  nose  ?  or  bore  his  jaw  through 
with  a  thorn  ?  Will  he  make  many  supplications  unto 
thee  ?  will  he  speak  soft  words  unto  thee  ?  Will  he  make 
a  covenant  with  thee  ?  wilt  thou  take  him  for  a  servant 
forever  ?  Wilt  thou  play  with  him  as  with  a  bird  ?  or 
wilt  thou  bind  him  for  thy  maidens  ?  Shall  thy  compan- 
ions make  a  banquet  of  him  ?  shall  they  part  him  among 
the  merchants  ?  Canst  thou  fill  his  skin  with  barbed 
irons  ?  or  his  head  with  fish  spears  ?  Lay  thine  hand 
upon  him,  remember  the  battle,  do  no  more.  Behold,  the 
hope  of  him  is  in  vain  :  shall  not  one  be  cast  down  even 
at  the  sight  of  him  .?  None  is  so  fierce  that  dare  stir  him 
up :  who  then  is  able  to  stand  before  me  ?  Who  hath 
prevented  me,  that  I  should  repay  him  ?  whatsoever  is 
under  the  whole  heaven  is  mine.  I  will  not  conceal  his 
parts,  nor  his  power,  nor  his  comely  proportion.  Who 
can  discover  the  face  of  his  garment  ?  or  who  can  come 
to  him  with  his  double  bridle  ?  Who  can  open  the  doors 
of  his  face  ?  his  teeth  are  terrible  round  about.  His 
scales  are  his  pride,  shut  up  together  as  with  a  close  seal. 
One  is  so  near  to  another,  that  no  air  can  come  between 
them.  They  are  joined  one  to  another,  they  stick  to- 
gether, that  they  cannot  be  sundered.  By  his  neesings  a 
light  doth  shine,  and  his  eyes  are  like  the  eyelids  of  the 
morning.     Out  of  his  mouth  go  burning  lamps,  and  sparks 


6o  DESCRIPTION. 

of  fire  leap  out.  Out  of  his  nostrils  goeth  smoke,  as  out 
of  a  seething  pot  or  caldron.  His  breath  kindleth  coals, 
and  a  flame  goeth  out  of  his  mouth.  In  his  neck  remain- 
eth  strength,  and  sorrow  is  turned  into  joy  before  him. 
The  flakes  of  his  flesh  are  joined  together  :  they  are  firm 
in  themselves;  they  cannot  be  moved.  His  heart  is  as 
firm  as  a  stone ;  yea,  as  hard  as  a  piece  of  the  nether 
millstone.  When  he  raiseth  up  himself,  the  mighty  are 
afraid  :  by  reason  of  breakings  they  purify  themselves. 
The  sword  of  him  that  layeth  at  him  cannot  hold :  the 
spear,  the  dart,  nor  the  harbergeon.  He  esteemeth  iron 
as  straw,  and  brass  as  rotten  wood.  The  arrow  cannot 
make  him  flee  :  slingstones  are  turned  with  him  into 
stubble.  Darts  are  counted  as  stubble  :  he  laugheth  at 
the  shaking  of  a  spear.  Sharp  stones  are  under  him  :  he 
spreadeth  sharp  pointed  things  upon  the  mire.  He  mak- 
eth  the  deep  to  boil  like  a  pot :  he  maketh  the  sea  like  a 
pot  of  ointment.  He  maketh  a  path  to  shine  after  him  ; 
one  would  think  the  deep  to  be  hoary.  Upon  earth  there 
is  not  his  like,  who  is  made  without  fear.  He  beholdeth 
all  high   things :   he   is   a  king  over  all   the   children  of 

P^^^^-"  Job,  chapter  xli. 

2.  "  But  on  my  ears  there  smote  a  wailing,  whereat  for- 
ward intent  I  open  wide  my  eye.  And  the  good  master 
said,  '  Now,  son,  the  city  draws  near  that  is  named  Dis, 
with  its  heavy  citizens,  with  its  great  throng.'  And  I, 
'  Master,  already  in  the  valley  therewithin  I  clearly  dis- 
cern its  mosques,  vermilion,  as  if  issuing  from  fire.'  And 
he  said  to  me,  '  The  eternal  fire  that  blazes  within  them 
displays  them  red  as  thou  seest  in  this  low  Hell.'  " 

Norton:  //?//,  canto  viii. 


DESCRIPTION.  6 1 

3.  "  And  I,  '  Good  Leader,  let  us  go  on  with  greater 
speed,  for  now  I  am  not  weary  as  before  ;  and  behold 
now  how  the  hill  casts  his  shadow.'  '  We  will  go  forward 
with  this  day,'  he  answered,  '  as  much  further  as  we  shall 
yet  be  able  ;  but  the  fact  is  of  other  form  than  thou  sup- 
posest.  Before  thou  art  there  —  above  thou  wilt  see  him 
return,  who  is  now  hidden  by  the  hill-side  so  that  thou 
dost  not  make  his  rays  to  break.  But  see  there  a  soul 
which  seated  all  alone  is  looking  toward  us ;  it  will  point 
out  to  us  the  speediest  way.'  We  came  to  it.  O  Lom- 
bard soul,  how  lofty  and  scornful  wast  thou;  and  in  the 
movement  of  thine  eyes  grave  and  slow  !  It  said  not 
anything  to  us,  but  let  us  go  on,  looking  only  in  manner 
of  a  lion  when  he  couches.  Virgil,  however,  drew  near 
to  it,  praying  that  it  would  show  to  us  the  best  ascent; 
and  it  answered  not  to  his  request,  but  of  our  country 
and  life  it  asked  us.  And  the  sweet  Leader  began, '  Man- 
tua,' —  and  the  shade,  all  in  itself  recluse,  rose  toward  him 
from  the  place  where  erst  it  was,  saying,  '  O  Mantuan, 
I  am  Sordello   of    thy  city,'  —  and  they   embraced   each 

nthpr  " 

^'  NORTOX:    Purgatory,  0.^x^.0  s\. 

4.  Edgar.     "  Come  on,-  sir ;  here's  the  place.     Stand 

still.     How  fearful 
And  dizzy  'tis  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low  ! 
The  crows  and  choughs  that  wing  the  midway  air 
Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles.     Half  way  down 
Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire,  dreadful  trade  ! 
Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head. 
The  fishermen  that  walk  upon  the  beach 
Appear  like  mice ;  and  yond  tall  anchoring  bark 
Diminish'd  to  her  cock;  her  cock,  a  buoy 


62  DESCRIPTION. 

Almost  too  small  for  sight.     The  murmuring  surge, 
That  on  the  unnumber'd  idle  pebbles  chafes, 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high.     I'll  look  no  more, 
Lest  my  brain  turn  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong. 

Gloster.  "  Set  me  where  you  stand. 

Edgar.     "Give  me  your  hand.     You  are  now  within  a 
foot 
Of  the  extreme  verge.     For  all  beneath  the  moon 
Would  I  not  leap  upright."        j^^.^^^  j^,^,.^  ^^^  ^^.  ^  S^^^^  ^ 

II.  1.  Compare  with  the  Laocoon,  familiar  to 
you  from  photographs  or  from  memory,  the  following 
description  of  the  same  scene  by  Virgil :  — 

"Hie  aliud  majus  miseris  multoque  tremendum 
Objicitur  magis,  atque  improvida  pectora  turbat. 
Laocoon,  ductus  Neptuno  sorte  sacerdos, 
Solemnes  taurum  ingentem  mactabat  ad  aras. 
Ecce  autem  gemini  a  Tenedo  tranquilla  per  alta  — 
Horresco  referens — immensis  orbibus  angues 
Incumbunt  pelago,  pariterque  ad  litora  tendunt ; 
Pectora  quorum  inter  fluctus  arrecta  jubaeque 
Sanguineae  superant  undas  ;  pars  cetera  pontum 
Pone  legit  sinuatque  immensa  volumine  terga  ; 
Fit  sonitus  spumante  salo.     Jamque  arva  tenebant, 
Ardentesque  oculos  suffecti  sanguine  et  igni, 
Sibila  lambebant  Unguis  vibrantibus  ora. 
Diffugimus  visu  exsangues.     Illi  agmine  certo 
Laocoonta  petunt ;  et  primum  parva  duorum 
Corpora  natorum  serpens  amplexus  uterque 
Implicat,  et  miseros  morsu  depascitur  artus ; 


DESCRIPTION.  63 

Post  ipsum,  auxilio  subeuntem  ac  tela  ferentem, 
Corripiunt,  spirisque  ligant  ingentibus  ;  et  jam 
Bis  medium  amplexi,  bis  collo  squamea  circum 
Terga  dati,  superantque  capita  et  cervicibus  altis. 
Ille  simul  manibus  tendit  divellere  nodos, 
Perfusus  sanie  vittas  atroque  veneno, 
Clamores  simul  horrendos  ad  sidera  tollit : 
Quales  mugitus,  fugit  quum  saucius  aram 
Taurus  et  incertam  excussit  cervice  securim."' 

^iieiJ,  II.,  199-224. 

2.  What  device  for  producing  the  illusion  that 
good  description  demands  is  employed  in  Homer's 
famous  description  of  the  shield  of  Achilles  ? 

3.  What  is  the  value  as  description  of  the  follow- 
ing passage  ? 

"  Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing : 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die ; 

You  came  to  us  so  readily, 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die." 

III.  1.  Describe  the  same  person  or  object  by 
the  two  opposed  methods,  —  description  by  detail  and 
description  by  suggestion. 

2.  Describe  an  object,  person,  or  scene  in  which 
you  find  it  necessary  to  use  a  diagram  or  sketch  in 
order  to  supplement  the  verbal  description. 


64  DESCRIPTION. 

CHAPTER   IV. 

NARRATION. 

1.  The  Fitness  of  Language  for  Narration.  —  Narrative 
is  the  special  field  of  language  ;  for  language,  being 
itself  a  series  of  words  uttered  in  succession,  is  pe- 
culiarly adapted  for  representing  sequence  of  events 
in  time.i  A  single  picture  can  never  adequately  rep- 
resent a  series  of  events  ;  that  is,  it  can  never  tell  us 
a  story  :  at  best  it  can  only  suggest  one.  Narrative 
deals  with  what  happens,  and  obviously  nothing  can 
really  happen  in  a  picture  or  a  statue.  Take,  for 
instance,  that  succession  of  facts  which  we  call 
music.  Artists  may  portray  with  success  the  face 
or  the  figure  of  a  person  singing,  but  it  would  be  im- 
possible adequately  to  represent,  or  indeed  even  to 
suggest,  the  song  itself.  That  language,  however, 
may  succeed  where  painting  and  sculpture  must  fail, 
is  evident  from  the  following  instances  :  — 

id)    "  It  ceased  ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 
A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 
A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

1  The  facility  witli  which  language  can,  as  it  were,  keep  pace  with 
the  motion  of  outward  events  is  suggested  by  Pope's  well-known  lines :  — 

"  When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw. 
The  line  too  labors  and  the  words  move  slow; 
Not  so  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain. 
Flies  o'er  the  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main." 


NARRATION.  65 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune." 

COLKRIDOE:    The  Ancient  Mariner. 

{b)        "  Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit  — 
Bird  thou  never  wert  — 
That  from  heaven  or  near  it 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art." 

Shelley:     To  a   Skylark. 

{c)  "  The  sun  was  gone  now  ;  the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf;  and  now 
She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 
Had  when  they  sang  together.  " 

ROSSETTI :    TIic  Blessed  Damozel. 

2.  The  Extent  of  the  Material  for  Narrative.  —  Not  only 
is  narration  a  form  of  composition  for  which  language 
is  well  adapted,  but  the  proper  subject-matter  for  nar- 
rative—  acts  and  events  —  is  the  very  stuff  of  which 
our  lives  are  made.  Our  first  question  is  therefore 
likely  to  be,  not  how  shall  we  find  events  to  put  into 
our  narrative,  but  where  shall  we  set  the  limit  for 
them  :  how  many  shall  we  admit  ?  It  might,  at  first 
sight,  seem,  for  instance,  that  it  would  be  simple 
enough  to  record  the  experience  of  a  single  moment 
in  the  life  of  one  man.  A  striking  passage  in  Tol- 
stoi's JVar  and  Peace  shows,  however,  what  a  mul- 
titude of  minor  events  he  saw  fit  to  include  in  the 


66  NARRA  TION. 

experiences  of  a  man  who  was  almost  instantaneously 
killed  by  a  bursting  bomb.  With  what  takes  place 
in  just  one  minute  he  fills  three  pages.  But  the  story 
which  Tolstoi'  is  telling  covers  three  months  in  one 
hundred  and  forty  pages.  If,  then,  he  had  told  the 
whole  story  with  the  same  fulness,  the  record  of  the 
three  months  would  fill  just  three  hundred  and 
eighty-eight  thousand,  eight  hundred  pages ;  and 
allowing  fifty  years  for  a  man's  life,  this  way  of 
treating  it  would  fill  seventy-seven  million,  seven 
hundred  and  sixty  thousand  pages.  Moreover,  the 
life  of  the  most  ordinary  man  does  not  stand  off 
by  itself  like  a  statue ;  it  is  shaped  and  moulded 
by  other  lives ;  it  shapes  and  moulds  other  lives. 
Unless  we  take  into  consideration  those  other  lives, 
that  life  we  tell  of  is  hardly  intelligible.  For  the 
purposes  of  an  epigram  the  life  of  a  king  may  be 
told  in  a  quatrain.  The  Earl  of  Rochester  proposed 
this  for  King  Charles  II.  :  — 

"  Here  lies  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King, 
Whose  word  no  man  relies  on, 
Who  never  said  a  foolish  thing 
Nor  ever  did  a  wise  one." 

On  the  other  hand,  Thomas  Carlyle  considered  three 
thousand  pages  scant  provision  for  the  biography  of 
Frederick  the  Great.  How  impressive,  however,  that 
biography  is  the  following  comment  will  show:  — 

"  The  most  notable  example  of  unity  thus  demonstrable 
that   I   have   lately  come   across   is   a  book  so  long  that 


NARRA  TIO/\r.  6j 

until  last  summer  I  never  had  the  courage  to  read  it.  I 
mean  Carlyle's  Frederick  the  Great — a  work  which  com- 
prises a  considerable  number  of  volumes  and  twenty- 
one  distinct  books,  each  of  which  is  subdivided  into  a 
number  of  chapters,  of  which  most  are  in  turn  subdivided 
into  separately  named  sections.  The  edition  I  read  in 
the  spare  hours  of  six  or  eight  weeks,  was  printed  rather 
closely  on  a  page  containing,  I  should  guess,  from  three 
to  four  hundred  words.  The  number  of  these  pages  was 
in  the  region  of  three  thousand ;  and  the  matters  dis- 
cussed therein  embraced  the  whole  recorded  history  of 
Brandenburg  and  of  the  House  of  Hohenzollern,  and 
pretty  much  everything  that  happened  in  Europe  during 
the  first  three-quarters  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Sov- 
ereigns from  Henry  the  Fowler  to  Catherine  the  Second 
crowded  on  us  pell-mell,  —  soldiers,  statesmen',  buffoons, 
peasants  ;  Voltaire,  and  Maria  Theresa,  and  Augustus  of 
Saxony,  and  all  four  Georges  of  England,  and  two  or 
three  Louises  of  France ;  tobacco  parliaments,  Silesian 
wars,  Potsdam  millers,  scandals,  heroisms,  schoolmasters, 
apothecaries,  what  not  that  whirled  about  in  this  world  of 
ours  a  century  or  two  ago.  Such  a  mass  of  living  facts 
—  for  somehow  Carlyle  never  lets  a  fact  lack  life  —  I  had 
never  seen  flung  together  before ;  and  yet  the  one  chief 
impression  I  brought  away  from  the  book  was  that  to  a 
degree  rare  even  in  very  small  ones  it  possessed  as  a 
whole  the  great  trait  of  unity.  In  one's  memory,  each 
fact  by  and  by  fell  into  its  own  place  :  the  chief  ones 
stood  out ;  the  lesser  sank  back  into  a  confused  but  not 
inextricable  mass  of  throbbing  vitality.  And  from  it  all 
emerged  more  and  more  clearly  the  one  central  figure 
who  gave  his  name  to  the  whole,  —  Frederick  of  Prussia. 


68  NARRATION. 

It  was  as  they  bore  on  him  from  all  quarters  of  time  and 
space,  and  as  he  reacted  on  them  far  and  wide,  that  all 
these  events  and  all  these  people  were  brought  back  out 
of  their  dusty  graves  to  live  again.  Whatever  else  Car- 
lyle  was,  the  unity  of  this  enormous  book  proves  him, 
when  he  chose  to  be,  a  Titanic  artist." 

Wendell:    English  Composition,  pp.  157-158. 

If  such  is  the  scope  of  the  record  of  a  single  his- 
torical figure,  consider  the  immensity  of  the  task  and 
the  daring  of  the  man  who,  like  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
should  undertake  to  write  a  History  of  the  World. 

3.  An  Objective  Point  Necessary.  —  Whether  one  is 
called  upon  to  write  a  history  of  the  world  or  of  a 
summer  vacation,  there  arises  in  one's  memory  a 
great  and  confused  mass  of  facts,  events,  and  com- 
ments, all  competing  for  admission  to  the  narrative. 
We  are  already  started  on  the  second  epoch  of  our 
World  or  the  second  week  of  our  Vacation,  when 
dozens  of  memories  of  the  first  epoch  or  of  the  first 
week  suddenly  appear.  We  had  forgotten  them  be- 
fore ;  it  is  too  much  trouble  to  write  the  first  part  all 
over  again,  and  we  decide  to  insert  them  anywhere. 
We  thus  produce  confusion  worse  confounded.  Un- 
disciplined story-tellers  almost  always  fall  into  this 
error.  They  double  and  turn  on  their  own  trails 
like  frightened  hares.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a  scrap 
from  the  conversation  of  a  somewhat  exaggerated, 
yet  not  quite  impossible,  young  woman  presented  to 
us  by  Charles  Dickens  :  — 


NARRATION.  69 

"  '  One  remark,'  said  Flora,  giving  their  conversation, 
without  the  sHghtest  notice  and  to  the  great  terror  of 
Clennam,  the  tone  of  a  love-quarrel,  '  I  wish  to  make, 
one  explanation  I  wish  to  offer,  when  your  Mama  came 
and  made  a  scene  of  it  with  my  Papa,  and  when  I  was 
called  down  into  the  little  breakfast  room  where  they  were 
looking  at  one  another  with  your  Mama's  parasol  between 
them,  seated  on  two  chairs  like  mad  bulls  what  was  I  to 
do!' 

" '  My  dear  Mrs.  Pinching,'  urged  Clennam  —  '  all  so  long 
ago  and  so  long  concluded,  is  it  worth  while  seriously  to  — ' 

"  '  I  can't,  Arthur,'  returned  Flora,  '  be  denounced  as 
heartless  by  the  whole  society  of  China  without  setting 
myself  right  when  I  have  the  opportunity  of  doing  so,  and 
you  must  be  very  well  aware  that  there  was  Paul  and  A^ir- 
ginia  which  had  to  be  returned  and  which  was  returned 
without  note  or  comment,  not  that  I  mean  to  say  you 
could  have  written  to  me  watched  as  I  was,  but  if  it  had 
only  come  back  with  a  red  wafer  on  the  cover  I  should 
have  known  that  it  meant  Come  to  Pekin  Nankeen  and 
What's  the  third  place,  barefoot.' 

"  '  My  dear  Mrs.  Pinching,  you  were  not  to  blame,  and 
I  never  blamed  you.  We  were  both  too  young,  too  depend- 
ent and  helpless,  to  do  anything  but  accept  our  separation. 
—  Pray  think  how  long  ago,'  gently  remonstrated  Arthur. 

"  '  One  more  remark,'  proceeded  Flora  with  unslackened 
volubility,  '  I  wish  to  make,  one  more  explanation  I  wish 
to  offer,  for  five  days  I  had  a  cold  in  the  head  from  crying 
which  I  passed  entirely  in  the  back  drawing-room  still  on 
the  first  floor  and  still  at  the  back  of  the  house  to  confirm 
my  words  —  when  that  dreary  period  had  passed  a  lull 
succeeded  years  rolled  on  and  Mr.  P.  became  acquainted 


70  NARRA  TION. 

with  us  at  a  mutual  friend's  he  was  all  attention  he  called 
next  day,  he  soon  began  to  call  three  evenings  a  week  and 
to  send  in  little  things  for  supper,  it  was  not  love  on  Mr. 
F.'s  part  it  was  adoration,  Mr.  F.  proposed  with  the  full 
approval  of  Papa  and  what  could  I  do  ? '  " 

Little  Dorrit,  book  i.,  chap.  xiii. 

This  is  the  way  uncultivated  people  sometimes 
talk  and  write  when  they  undertake  to  tell  a  story. 
The  general  trouble  is  that  they  have  no  conception 
of  what  method  means.  They  get  nowhere  because 
they  aim  nowhere.  For,  after  all,  the  simplest  and 
best  receipt  for  narrating  anything  is,  first,  find  out 
what  you  are  to  say  ;  second,  say  it ;  and  third,  waste 
no  time  in  getting  started. 

4.  The  Two  Great  Classes  of  Subject-Matter  in  Narration 
and  the  Means  Appropriate  to  Each.  —  Our  main  difficulty, 
then,  in  trying  to  present  in  orderly  fashion  some  of 
the  interesting  happenings  experienced  by  us  in  this 
intricate  life  of  ours,  is  that  we  find  ourselves  in  im- 
minent danger  either  of  confusion,  or  of  tediousness, 
or  of  both  confusion  and  tediousness.  How  shall  we 
avoid  these  dangers .''  As  in  Description,  there  are 
two  solutions  of  the  difficulty,  — a  practical  solution 
and  an  artistic  solution.  The  practical  solution  aims 
merely  at  accuracy  of  fact  ;  it  works  by  simple  selec- 
tion from  the  records  of  experience.  We  may  call 
it,  broadly,  History.  The  artistic  solution  aims  to 
make  dead  facts  take  on  flesh  and  blood,  and  live  for 
us  ;  it  works  by  suggestion.  We  may  call  it,  roughly, 
Romance. 


NARRATION.  7 1 

History  is  the  record  of  those  happenings  which 
we  agree  to  call  real ;  Romance,  of  those  happenings 
which  we  agree  to  pretend  are  real,  though  all  the 
while  we  know  they  are  not  real.  Surely,  one  would 
say,  there  are  enough  real  things  in  the  world  ;  what 
is  the  use  of  dressing  up  lies  and  making  believe 
they  are  real  things  ?  Why  not  stick  to  fact,  make 
fact  interesting,  and  give  up  fiction  altogether? 
These  questions  are  not  unreasonable  ;  indeed,  no 
less  a  man  than  Thomas  Carlyle  was  largely  of  the 
opinion  that  we  should  do  well  to  gfve  over  fiction 
entirely,  stick  to  fact,  and  make  fact  interesting. 
Carlyle's  plea  for  fact  is  at  least  worth  our  atten- 
tion :  — 

"  Here,  too,  may  we  not  pause  for  an  instant,  and  make 
a  practical  reflection  ?  Considering  the  multitude  of  mor- 
tals that  handle  the  Pen  in  these  days,  and  can  mostly 
spell,  and  write  without  glaring  violations  of  grammar, 
the  question  naturally  arises  :  How  is  it.  then,  that  no 
Work  proceeds  from  them,  bearing  any  stamp  of  authenti- 
city and  permanence  ;  of  worth  for  more  than  one  day  ? 
Shiploads  of  Fashionable  Novels,  Sentimental  Rhymes, 
Tragedies,  Farces,  Diaries  of  Travel,  Tales  by  flood  and 
field,  are  swallowed  monthly  into  the  bottomless  Pool :  still 
does  the  Press  toil ;  innumerable  Paper-makers,  Composi- 
tors, Printers'  Devils,  Bookbinders,  and  Hawkers  grown 
hoarse  with  loud  proclaiming  rest  not  from  their  labour ; 
and  still,  in  torrents,  rushes  on  the  great  array  of  Publica- 
tions, unpausing,  to  their  final  home  ;  and  still  Oblivion,  like 
the  Grave,  cries,  Give  !  give  !  How  is  it  that  of  all  these 
countless   multitudes  no  one   can   attain   to  the  smallest 


72  narration: 

mark  of  excellence,  or  produce  aught  that  shall  endure 
longer  than  '  snow-flake  on  the  river,'  or  the  foam  of  penny- 
beer  ?  We  answer :  Because  they  are  foam ;  because 
there  is  no  Reality  in  them.  These  Three  Thousand  men, 
women,  and  children,  that  make  up  the  army  of  British 
Authors,  do  not,  if  we  will  well  consider  it,  sec  anything  what- 
ever ;  consequently  have  nothing  that  they  can  record  and 
utter,  only  more  or  fewer  things  that  they  can  plausibly 
pretend  to  record.  The  Universe,  of  Man  and  Nature,  is 
still  quite  shut  up  from  them  ;  the  '  open  secret '  still  ut- 
terly a  secret,  because  no  sympathy  with  Man  or  Nature, 
no  love  and  free  simplicity  of  heart  has  yet  unfolded  the 
same.  Nothing  but  a  pitiful  Image  of  their  own  pitiful 
Self,  with  its  vanities,  and  grudgings,  and  ravenous  hun- 
ger of  all  kinds,  hangs  forever  painted  in  the  retina  of 
these  unfortunate  persons  ;  so  that  the  starry  All,  with 
whatsoever  it  embraces,  does  but  appear  as  some  expanded 
magic-lantern  shadow  of  that  same  Image,  —  and  natu- 
rally looks  pitiful  enough."  Carlyle:   Biography. 

So  much  of  literature  is  futile,  says  Carlyle  in 
effect,  because  there  is  no  reality  in  it  ;  and  there  is 
no  reality  in  it  because  "  forever  painted  in  the  retina 
of  these  unfortunate  "  authors  hangs  "nothing  but  a 
pitiful  Image  of  their  own  pitiful  Self,  with  its  vani- 
ties, and  grudgings,  and  ravenous  hunger  of  all  kinds." 
Carlyle's  language  never  lacks  spice  ;  yet  in  these  very 
words  —  these  bitter  words  —  lies  the  answer  to  his 
objection,  and  to  his  recommendation  that  we  should 
give  up  fiction  and  stick  to  fact,  that  we  should  cease 
to  write  novels,  rhymes,  tragedies,  farces,  —  romances 


NARRATION.  73 

generally, — and  that  we  should  write  instead  only 
history.  Whoever  would  write  good  history  must 
forget  himself,  with  his  "  vanities,  and  grudgings,  and 
ravenous  hunger  of  all  kinds  ; "  he  must  try  to  see 
the  fact  before  him  as  it  works  out  its  own  salvation, 
independently  of  him.  But  ourselves  are  curiously 
interesting  things,  not  only  to  ourselves  but  also  to 
others.  We  are  like  so  many  mirrors  of  different 
shapes,  set  at  different  angles  ;  the  real  world  passes 
before  us  and  we  reflect  it,  but  no  two  precisely  in 
the  same  way.  The  historian  turns  himself  towards 
each  of  his  fellow-mirrors,  tries  to  note  how  the  re- 
flection they  present  differs  from  his  own,  and  so  to 
correct  his  own  by  theirs  and  theirs  by  his  own,  until 
he  gets  something  like  a  faithful  image  of  the  real 
world  as  it  goes  on  outside  of  them  all.  The  romance- 
maker  is  content  to  study  just  his  own  little  private 
reflection,  and  to  give  it  for  what  it  is  worth,  with  all 
its  distortions  of  "  vanities,  and  grudgings,  and  rave- 
nous hunger  of  all  kinds."  Now,  one  of  the  "vani- 
ties "  of  weak  human  nature  is  what  we  call  poetic 
justice,  the  liking  to  have  things  as  we  should  per- 
sonally wish  them  to  happen.  And  one  of  the 
"grudgings"  of  human  nature  is  the  grudging  to 
spend  time  and  trouble  over  dry  things  instead  of 
exciting  ones.  And,  finally,  one  of  the  "  ravenous 
hungers  "  of  humanity  is  the  craving  that  certain 
vague  things  called  Ideals  should  somehow  be  made 
to  take  on  flesh  and  blood,  and  should  act  out  be- 
fore us  all   the   beautiful  and  daring  things   that  we 


74  NARRA  TION. 

should  so  much  like  to  do  if  we  only  could.  Plain 
fact  cannot,  or  at  any  rate  does  not,  satisfy  these 
weaknesses  —  if  we  may  call  them  weaknesses  —  of 
ours.  And  because  plain  fact  will  not  satisfy  us,  the 
record  of  plain  fact,  which  is  history,  will  not,  how- 
ever nobly  treated,  entirely  satisfy  us.  Leaving, 
however,  for  the  moment,  the  romantic  treatment  of 
life,  we  must  now  examine  the  historical  treatment 
of  life,  the  unbiassed  record  of  plain  fact. 

5.  History:  Interconnection  of  Facts.  —  We  have  just 
seen  that  Narration  is  easier  than  Description,  be- 
cause whereas  Description  tries  to  jjut  into  language, 
which  has  only  one  dimension  —  extension  in  time  — 
solid  objects,  which  have  three  dimensions — exten- 
sion upwards,  outwards,  and  sideways  in  space  — 
Narration,  on  the  other  hand,  has  but  to  deal  with 
events  which,  like  language,  have  only  one  dimen- 
sion—  extension  in  time.  That  is  all  true,  and  yet 
it  is  also  false  :  true,  because  a  single  event  has  sim- 
ply duration,  simply  begins  and  after  a  while  is  done ; 
false,  because  every  moment  there  are  happening 
millions  and  millions  of  events  all  at  once  ;  false  still 
more,  because  each  of  these  myriad  events  acts  upon 
its  neighbor,  and  is  itself  in  its  turn  reacted  upon. 
As  a  single  shift  of  the  kaleidoscope  will  change  to 
the  least  detail  the  whole  pattern,  so  the  slightest 
shift  of  action  in  the  world  —  a  Caesar  crossing  a 
River  Rubicon,  a  Martin  Luther  tearing  down  papis- 
tical  tyrannies  from    a   church's  walls  —  may  alter 


NARRATION.  75 

the  whole  course  of  human  life.  Such  single  events 
do  not  simply  happen  ;  they  change  all  the  other 
happenings  about  them  and  to  follow  them.  The 
difficulty  seems  to  come  back  on  us.  To  represent 
merely  a  simple  succession  of  single  events  would  not 
be  difficult  :  we  should  merely  have  to  jot  them  down 
one  after  another  as  the  bricklayer  lays  one  brick 
upon  the  other.  Life,  however,  is  no  such  simple 
succession  of  single  events,  but  rather  a  succession 
of  whole  armies  of  events  marching  abreast ;  nor  is 
the  succession  simple  either,  but  an  immensely  com- 
plicated succession  of  causes  which  are  at  the  same 
time  effects  and  of  effects  which  are  at  the  same  time 
causes.  All  this  welter  of  confusion  must,  neverthe- 
less, be  drilled  into  the  single-file  march  of  lansuag-e. 

6.  Guides  for  Selecting  the  Facts  in  Historical  Writing  : 
Interest.  —  The  problem  seems  stupendous,  impossi- 
ble, but  yet  we  make  shift  to  solve  it  somehow.  We 
are  all  reporters  of  experience,  and  experience  has 
taught  us  a  practical  shorthand  by  which  we  can 
learn  to  keep  some  sort  of  pace  with  her.  This 
shorthand  is  Interest.  We  take  down  what  our 
special  interest  leads  us  to  select ;  the  rest  we  reject  ; 
nay,  we  are  hardly  even  aware  of  its  existence. 

7.  How  Judgment  should  act  as  a  Check  on  Interest.  — 

Interest  will  naturally  guide  us  in  Selection,  but 
we  should  not  merely  pander  to  interest.  What  is 
superficially  striking  is  not  always  of  real  or  lasting 


"J^  NARRA  TION. 

interest.  The  horrors  of  history  are  not  always  the 
essential  facts  of  history,  nor  is  picturesqueness  a 
test  of  importance.  Milton,  for  instance,  was  a  pic- 
turesque figure— a  champion  of  liberty,  a  political 
martyr,  a  poet,  and  blind,  and  this  is  what  Macaulay, 
eager  for  a  picturesque  figure,  made  of  him. 

"  If  ever  despondency  and  asperity  could  be  excused  in 
any  man,  they  might  have  been  excused  in  Milton.  But 
the  strength  of  his  mind  overcame  every  calamity.  Neither 
blindness,  nor  gout,  nor  age,  nor  penury,  nor  domestic 
afflictions,  nor  political  disappointments,  nor  abuse,  nor 
proscription,  nor  neglect,  had  power  to  disturb  his  sedate 
and  majestic  patience.  His  spirits  do  not  seem  to  have 
been  high,  but  they  were  singularly  equable.  His  temper 
was  serious,  perhaps  stern  ;  but  it  was  a  temper  which  no 
sufferings  could  render  sullen  or  fretful.  Such  as  it  was 
when,  on  the  eve  of  great  events,  he  returned  from  his 
travels,  in  the  prime  of  health  and  manly  beauty,  loaded 
with  literary  distinctions,  and  glowing  with  patriotic 
hopes ;  such  it  continued  to  be  when,  after  having  expe- 
rienced every  calamity  which  is  incident  to  our  nature, 
old,  poor,  sightless,  and  disgraced,  he  retired  to  his  hovel 
to  die." 

Now  read  what  seem  to  have  been  the  plain  facts 
in  the  case  :  — 

"  His  personal  character  was,  owing  to  political  motives, 
long  treated  with  excessive  rigour.  The  reaction  to  Liberal 
politics  at  the  beginning  of  this  century  substituted  for 
this  rigour  a  somewhat  excessive  admiration,  and  even 
now  the  balance  is  hardly  restored,  as  may  be  seen  from 


NARRATION.  77 

the  fact  that  a  late  biographer  of  his  stigmatises  his  first 
wife,  the  unfortunate  Mary  Powell,  as  '  a  dull  and  com- 
mon girl,'  without  a  tittle  of  evidence  except  the  bare  fact 
of  her  difference  with  her  husband,  and  some  innuendoes 
(indirect  in  themselves,  and  clearly  tainted  as  testimony) 
in  Milton's  own  divorce  tracts.  On  the  whole,  Milton's 
character  was  not  an  amiable  one,  nor  even  wholly  esti- 
mable. It  is  probable  that  he  never  in  the  course  of  his 
whole  life  did  anything  that  he  considered  wrong  ;  but, 
unfortunately,  examples  are  not  far  to  seek  of  the  facility 
with  which  desire  can  be  made  to  confound  itself  with 
deliberate  approval.  That  he  was  an  exacting,  if  not  a 
tyrannical,  husband  and  father,  that  he  held  in  the  most 
peremptory  and  exaggerated  fashion  the  doctrine  of  the 
superiority  of  man  to  woman,  that  his  egotism  in  a  man 
who  had  actually  accomplished  less  would  be  half  ludi- 
crous and  half  disgusting,  that  his  faculty  of  appreciation 
beyond  his  own  immediate  tastes  and  interests  was  small, 
that  his  intolerance  surpassed  that  of  an  inquisitor,  and 
that  his  controversial  habits  and  manners  outdid  the 
license  even  of  that  period  of  controversial  abuse,  —  these 
are  propositions  which  I  cannot  conceive  to  be  disputed 
by  any  competent  critic  aware  of  the  facts." 

Saintsbury:   A  History  of  Elizabethan  Literature, 
pp.  316-317. 

8.  Guides  for  Selecting  the  Facts  in  Historical  Writing : 
Sympathy.  —  For  any  one  who  wishes  to  record  fact 
truly  and  vividly,  there  is,  according  to  Carlyle,  "  one 
grand  and  invaluable  secret:"  to  keep  the  eyes  open 
and  the  heart  open.  The  value  of  keeping  our  eyes 
open  —  interest  —  we  have    already  discussed;    the 


y^  NARRA  TION. 

value  of  keeping  our  hearts  open  —  sympathy — will 
be  obvious  to  any  one  who  has  read  a  biography  in 
which  the  writer's  sympathy  or  fellowship  with  his 
subject  brought  out  sides  of  his  character  which 
would,  under  other  circumstances,  have  been  passed 
by  unnoticed.  Boswell's  Life  ofJoJinson.  for  instance, 
is  so  great  because  Boswell's  eyes  and  heart  were 
open  to  the  plain  facts  before  him. 

9.  Guides  for  Choosing  the  Facts  in  Historical  Writing : 
Rejection.  —  James  Boswell  was  not,  however,  merely 
a  great,  soft-hearted  child  ;  he  was  an  artist,  one  of 
the  greatest  that  ever  tried  to  save  a  few  valuable 
facts  out  of  the  vast  flood  of  experience.  He  not 
only  knew  how  to  see,  but  what  to  see,  and  seeing,  to 
save.  To  save  gems  he  was  willing  to  throw  away 
dross.  In  history,  whether  it  be  of  the  world  or  of  a 
summer  vacation,  rejection  accompanies  selection. 

Except  from  actual  practice  in  writing  it  is  hard  to 
learn  what  kinds  of  facts  it  is  best  to  reject.  Two 
hints  may,  however,  be  of  service:  (i)  reject  what- 
ever does  not  play  in  the  narrative  a  part  of  either 
cause  or  effect;  (2)  reject  whatever  is  dependent 
upon  a  biassed  judgment.  As  to  the  second  point, 
we  all  need  to  observe  peculiar  caution,  for  it  is  not 
easy  to  learn  what  influences  affect  our  judgments  and 
to  allow  for  their  distortion. 

10.  Romance :  the  Test  of  the  Fact  not  Literal  Truth  but 
Consistency.  —  The  main  characteristic  of  romance  is 
that  it  seems  at  first  sight  to  be  independent  of  fact. 


NARR  Arias':  79 

Indeed,  according  to  Mr.  Oscar  Wilde,  it  does  not 
seem  to  matter  what  lies  we  tell  in  romance,  provided 
only  that  we  tell  them  with  a  decorously  grave  face ; 
for  the  great  trouble  with  modern  iiction  is,  if  we 
may  believe  him,  that  it  is  too  fond  of  parading  in 
the  lion's  skin  of  fact.  This  may  be  overstating  the 
matter  a  little,  but  there  is  evidently  sense  in  what 
Mr.  Wilde  says.  If  we  are  going  to  write  truth, — 
that  is  to  say,  history, — let  us  by  all  means  be  accu- 
rate. If,  on  the  contrary,  we  are  writing  iiction, 
why  should  we  not,  if  we  choose,  amuse  ourselves  in 
any  way  we  please }  why  should  we  bother  ourselves 
about  fact  at  all }  On  the  other  hand,  we  may  well 
ask  ourselves  whether  Rider  Haggard's  impossible 
adventures  of  impossible  people  are  justified  because 
fiction  has  nothing  to  do  with  fact  ;  and  whether 
such  an  improbable  plot  as  — 

"  Hey  diddle,  diddle, 
The  cat  and  the  fiddle, 
The  cow  jumped  over  the  moon," 

is  good  art.  Certainly  not.  Romance  is  not  history  ; 
but  then  romance  is  not  a  synonym  for  nonsense. 
There  is  truth  in  romance  ;  but  it  is  truth  not  to 
bald  fact,  but  to  ideals.  In  romance  we  are  writing 
or  reading  something  which  we  can  see  as  a  consist- 
ent whole.  We  understand  what  the  author  is  aim- 
ing at,  and  we  keep  pace  with  his  thought.  All  that 
we  demand  is  that  he  shall  tell  us  something  that 
hangs  together,  that  is  consistent.     This  is  the  word 


8o  NARRATION. 

which  expresses  the  truth  which  there  is,  or  should 
be,  in  romance  —  consistency,  hanging  together.  The 
trouble  with  the  statement  that 

"The  cow  jumped  over  the  moon," 

is,  not  that  it  is  a  lie,  —  the  statements  that  Paris 
gave  the  golden  apple  to  Venus,  or  that  Tom  Jones 
kicked  Blifil,  or  that  poor  little  Paul  Dombey  died, 
are  lies  no  less,  — the  trouble  with  the  cow's  jumping 
over  the  moon  is  that  it  is  not  a  consistent  lie,  that 
it  does  not  hang  together.  In  fine,  we  are  willing  in 
romance  to  imagine  anything  but  the  incongruous. 
If  cows  be  cows,  and  moons  be  moons,  it  is  obviously 
out  of  character  and  inappropriate  for  any  cow  to 
jump  over  any  moon.  The  verses  thus  become  mere 
nonsense  verses,  amusing  by  their  very  contradic- 
tions ;  and  all  bad  novels,  like  those  of  E.  P.  Roe  or 
Albert  Ross,  are  bad  for  precisely  the  same  reason, 
because  the  characters  seem  untrue  and  inconsistent 
to  the  imagination,  if  we  regard  them  as  anything 
better  than  nonsense. 

11.  Elements  of  All  Narrative.  —  It  is  from  the  prin- 
ciple of  consistency,  whether  to  an  ideal  or  to  fact, 
that  all  the  principles  which  may  guide  us  in  writing 
narrative  are  derived.  Every  narrative  has  four 
elements:  (i)  the  plot — that  is,  what  happened; 
(2)  the  character  —  tliat  is,  the  persons  to  whom  it 
happened;    (3)  the  situation — that    is,    the    place 


NARRA  TION.  8 1 

where  and  the  time  when  it  happened  ;  (4)  the  pur- 
pose—  or  the  reason  why  the  author  tells  us  that 
it  happened.  Corresponding  to  these  four  elements 
are  four  test  questions,  which  we  shall  do  well,  for  a 
while,  to  ask  ourselves  in  regard  to  every  narrative 
we  write  or  read  :  (i)  What  ?  (2)  Who  ?  (3)  Where 
and  when  ?     (4)  Why  ? 

12.  The  Purpose.  —  Although  the  purpose  of  a  nar- 
rative is  apt  to  be  the  last  thing  which  the  reader 
comes  to  understand,  it  is  properly  one  of  the  first 
conceptions  in  the  author's  mind.  The  author's  pur- 
pose may  be  merely  to  amuse,  as  in  Pickzvick 
Papers ;  to  amuse,  and  at  the  same  time  to  repre- 
sent human  nature,  as  in  Lcs  Trois  Monsquctaircs ; 
to  present  to  the  reader  facts  which  lead  to  a  distinct 
ethical  inference,  as  in  Anna  Karenina ;  to  pre- 
sent ethical  rules  illustrated  by  accompanying  facts, 
as  in  the  typical  Sunday-school  story  ;  to  represent 
what  the  author  supposes  to  be  merely  the  facts, 
from  which  the  reader  may  draw  any  inference  he 
chooses,  as  in  the  work  of  the  modern  realists  ;  or  to 
group  facts  of  investigation  and  imagination  in  such 
a  way  that  the  reader  is  stirred  to  greater  sympathy 
with  the  various  joys  and  sorrows  to  which  humanity 
is  subject.  Whatever  the  purpose  in  our  minds  may 
be,  however,  we  shall  do  well  (i)  to  realize  definitely 
what  it  is,  and  (2)  to  weigh  carefully,  before  begin- 
ning our  narrative,  the  several  means  for  attaining 
it.     In  Kipling's  A  Matter  of  Fact,  for  instance,  is  an 


82  NARRA  TION. 

account  of  three  journalists  who  had  together  seen 
a  sea-serpent,  and  had  each  his  especial  object  in  view 
in  presenting  the  "  facts  "  in  the  case  to  the  public. 
One  was  anxious  to  make  his  personal  part  in  the 
affair  as  prominent  as  possible  ;  another  had  set  his 
heart  on  confirming  by  minute  details  the  unimpeach- 
able truth  of  his  narrative  ;  and  a  third,  knowing  that 
the  stories  of  his  two  companions  would  scarcely  be 
believed,  had  determined  to  give  a  colorless  account 
of  the  occurrence,  convincing  by  its  artlessness. 
With  such  a  purpose  in  view,  each  then  chose  the 
means  which  seemed  to  him  most  likely  to  produce 
the  desired  effect. 

13.    The  Plot  and  the  Characters.  —  Having  defined 

the  purpose,  the  moral,  the  next  thing  is  to  express 
its  working  through  live  people.  Here  novelists 
diverge  :  some  first  work  out  their  plot,  and  let  their 
characters  develop  as  they  may  ;  others  make  elabo- 
rate character  studies,  and  pay  no  heed  to  plot. 
Either  extreme  is  obviously  bad.  Over-attention  to 
plot  produces  results  like  those  of  Gaboriau,  Anna 
Katherine  Green,  and  Rider  Haggard  ;  too  much 
interest  in  character  leads,  or  is  apt  to  lead,  to  tire- 
some psychological  analysis,  as  frequently  in  Henry 
James,  Paul  Bourget,  Howells,  and  George  Eliot. 
Mere  plot-interest  excites  for  the  time  being,  but 
leaves  the  mind  debilitated.  Mere  character  study, 
with  its  splitting  of  psychological  hairs,  and  end- 
less pro'ing  and  con'ing  about  motives,  is,  after  all, 


NARRA  TION.  83 

demoralizing-  in  its  effects,  in  that  it  makes  the 
reader  abnormally  morbid.  The  best  method  is  not 
that  which  rips  a  character  open  to  pick  out  the 
nerves  and  arteries  and  study  their  quivering,  but 
that  which  works  as  nature  works,  by  building  up, 
by  putting  together,  by  description  according  to 
behavior. 

Here  it  may  be  necessary  to  remind  the  student 
of  the  importance  of  action  in  narrative.  What  we 
know  people  about  us  by  is  their  behavior  in  all 
kinds  of  situations.  If  we  wish  to  present  a  cruel 
character,  therefore,  we  should  not  talk  about  his 
cruelty,  but  put  him  in  a  position  where,  if  he  is 
really  cruel,  he  will  act  cruelly,  as  Mr.  Hyde  does  in 
Stevenson's  famous  story. 

14.  Situation.  —  In  bringing  out  clearly  the  charac- 
ters and  the  plot,  nothing  will  be  found  more  helpful 
than  asking  ourselves  where  we  mean  to  have  the  acts 
which  make  up  the  body  of  our  narrative  take  place, 
and  when.  Here  description  rightly  enters  into  mod- 
ern narrative,  and  proves  itself  indispensable  ;  for  on 
it  depends  the  whole  background,  or  stage-setting, 
as  it  were,  against  which  the  action  stands  out  in 
strong  relief,  or  from  which  it  gains  peculiar  charac- 
teristics. The  acts  that  make  up  narrative,  we  must 
notice,  are  concrete  events.  They  must  take  place 
at  some  given  time  and  at  some  given  spot.  At  any 
other  time,  at  any  other  place,  what  occurred  would 
be  in  some  way  different.     In  Guy  de  Maupassant's 


84  NA/yHiA  TION. 

Story  called  Moonlight,  for  instance,  it  is  on  the 
place  and  the  time  that  the  whole  plot  turns,  for  the 
old  priest's  heart  could  have  softened  only  under 
such  influences  as  those  with  which  a  moonligrht 
night  in  the  country  surrounded  him. 


*e3' 


15.  The  Beginning ;  The  Plan  ;  Climax.  —  Three  addi- 
tional points  it  is  necessary  to  have  clearly  in  mind. 
First,  whatever  the  narrative  may  be,  and  wherever 
and  whenever  the  events  in  question  occur,  it  is  well 
to  get  about  the  narrating  of  them  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. The  first  thing  to  do  is  to  get  the  characters  in 
motion.  When  they  are  once  acting  there  will  be 
opportunities  enough  to  define  more  clearly  the  other 
elements  on  which  we  have  seen  that  narrative  also 
depends.  Second,  narrative  must,  of  course,  move 
forward,  but  it  should  not  move  unsteadily,  by  starts 
and  leaps.  We  may,  for  instance,  follow  in  any 
given  instance  the  logical  rather  than  the  strictly 
chronological  order  of  events,  but  we  shall  err  if  we 
pass  repeatedly  from  one  point  of  view  to  the  other. 
Again,  we  may  choose  to  present  a  series  of  events 
as  one  of  the  actors  saw  them,  or  as  a  looker-on  saw 
them,  or,  successively,  in  both  ways ;  but  it  would  be 
unwise  to  confuse  the  two  methods  or  frequently 
to  interrupt  the  narrative  by  passing  from  one  to  the 
other.  Third,  climax  tells  strongly  in  story-telling. 
W^e  should  work  steadily  up  to  the  point  of  our  nar- 
rative, and  then  stop.  What  is  really  of  most  impor- 
tance will  then  occupy  an  appropriately  prominent 
position. 


NARRATION.  85 


EXERCISE. 

1.  Write  (i)  a  narrative  for  the  material  of  which 
you  are  indebted  to  history ;  (2)  a  narrative  the 
material  of  which  you  draw  from  your  own  experi- 
ence. 

2.  Compare  the  different  aspects  of  the  same 
subject  brought  out  by  an  historical  painting  and 
an  historical  narrative. 

o.  Compare,  as  far  you  can,  the  material  used  by 
Scott  in  Ivanhoc,  Dumas  in  the  TJiree  Gjiardsvicn, 
and  Freeman,  Froude,  and  Carlyle  in  their  best- 
known  historical  works. 

4.  Test  a  number  of  news-narratives  from  typical 
daily  papers,  to  determine  how  far  the  material  at  the 
writers'  hands  has  been  presented  in  an  unneces- 
sarily "sensational"  fashion. 

5.  Try  to  write  an  impartial  account  of  an  event, 
or  series  of  events,  in  regard  to  which  you  are  likely 
to  be  strongly  prejudiced. 

6.  Try  to  reduce  to  simplicity  and  effectiveness 
a  wandering  and  confused  narrative,  by  striking  out 
all  details  that  do  not  essentially,  as  cause  or  as 
effect,  concern  the  main  point  of  the  story. 

7.  What  differences  can  you  detect  in  the  "pur- 
poses "  of  Gibbon,  Macaulay,  Carlyle,  Froude,  Hume, 


86  NARRATION. 

and  Bancroft,  in  writing  the  histories  that  bear  their 
names  ? 

8.  Cite  narratives,  historical  or  fictitious,  in  which 
you  plainly  recognize  the  part  played  by  "  character  " 
and  "situation,"  as  distinguished  from  "plot." 

9.  Cite  narratives,  historical  or  fictitious,  that 
show  overdevelopment  of  plot,  too  little  plot,  too 
much  character-study,  too  little  character-study,  too 
distinct  a  "purpose,"  a  "purpose"  not  sufficiently 
distinct. 


CRITICISM.  Z7 


CHAPTER  V. 

CRITICISM. 

1.  Literary  Criticism  and  Its  Importance. —  Criticism  is 
an  expression  of  opinion  as  to  the  worth  or  appropri- 
ateness of  some  one's  acts  or  conduct,  or  as  to  the  wortli 
or  appropriateness  of  any  work  of  art,  whether  the 
art  to  which  it  pertains  be  a  fine  art  or  a  useful  art. 
We  are  here,  however,  concerned  with  criticism  only 
in  a  more  limited  sense,  as  an  expression  of  opinion 
in  regard  to  the  worth  of  any  piece  of  writing  what- 
soever;  i.e.,  literary  criticism.  How  common  it  is 
for  us,  in  an  age  when  most' of  the  student's  knowl- 
edge and  much  of  his  amusement  come  to  him 
through  books,  to  express  our  opinions  on  such 
matters  in  writing  and  conversation,  it  is  not  hard  to 
see,  nor  how  important  a  part  criticism  of  this  sort 
plays  in  the  life  of  every  educated  man. 

2.  The  First  Requisite  :  a  Knowledge  of  the  Facts.  ^  In 

order  to  criticise  a  piece  of  written  work  fairly,  it 
is  first  necessary  to  understand  not  only  what  the 
author  has  done,  but  what  he  has  tried  to  do.  Just 
what,  we  must  ask  ourselves,  has  the  author  said,  and, 
furthermore,  what  has  been  his  object  in  saying  it. 
What  was  the  time  and  what  the  circumstances 
under  which  he  wrote .''  What  was  his  material  .'' 
What  aim  did  he  have  in  view,  —  to  amuse,  to  instruct, 


88  CRITICISM. 

to  inform,  to  incite,  to  warn  ?  In  making  up  one's 
opinion,  for  instance,  about  Mr.  Goldwin  Smith's 
recent  history  of  the  United  States,  it  is  important 
to  bear  in  mind  that  the  author  is  an  Englishman, 
long  resident  in  Canada,  that  he  writes  primarily  for 
Englishmen,  and  that  his  object  is  merely  to  present 
a  clear  outline  of  the  political  history.  In  the  case  of 
a  translation  of  Horace,  again,  it  would  be  necessary 
to  notice  whether  the  version  was  made  with  the 
object  of  preserving  merely  the  thought  of  the  ori- 
ginal, or  with  the  object  of  preserving  the  poetical 
charm  of  the  original  as  well. 

3.    Judgment  must  be  Rendered  in  Accordance  with  the 
Facts, — As  a  rule,  we  must   judge   an   author  by  the 
relation  between  what  he  has  done  and  what  he  has 
tried  to  do.     We  may,  to  be  sure,  quarrel  with  him  at 
the  outset  for  aiming  too  high  or  too  low  ;  but  criti- 
cism on  this  point,   although   it  can  scarcely  fail  to 
bring    up    important    questions    of    art,    is    after    all 
another  matter.     What  is,   strictly  speaking,    in  the 
critic's  hands  for  decision,  is  the  question  whether  the 
writer  has  done  well  the  work  which   he  has  under- 
taken.    Now,  obviously,  Mr.  Goldwin  Smith's  history 
of  the  United  States  should  not  be  judged  on  the  same' 
basis  as  another  book  on  the  same  subject  written  by 
an  American,  on  a  larger,  or  a  smaller  scale,  consid- 
ering the  subject  from  another  point   of  view,    and 
explicitly  addressed  to  an  American   audience  ;  nor 
should   Mr.  A.  J.  Butler's   translation    of  the  Diviiie 


CRITICISM.  89 

Comedy,  which  aims  only  to  render  Dante's  thought 
in  the  most  Hteral  fashion,  be  judged  on  the  same 
basis  as  the  version  of  the  Purgatory  by  Mr. 
Shadwell,  who  attempts  to  reproduce  not  only  the 
thought  but  the  music  of  the  great  poem. 

4.  Structure :  the  Beginning.  —  At  the  opening  of  a 
piece  of  literary  criticism  it  is  frequently  necessary 
to  devote  a  paragraph  to  such  introductory  matter 
as  will  explain  to  the  reader  why  the  book  in  question 
deserves  notice,  who  the  author  is  and  why  he  is 
well  or  ill  qualified  for  the  task,  and  what  the  par- 
ticular circumstances,  if  any,  were  under  which  the 
work  was  written.  The  following,  for  instance,  is 
the  beginning  of  a  review  in  the  New  York  Nation 
for  Oct.  26,  1893,  of  the  late  Professor  Ten  Brink's 
Shakspcre  :  — 

Shakspere  :     Fi'tnf     Vorlcsnngcn    aus   dem    Nachlass   von 
Benihard  ten  Brink.     Strassburg  :  Triibner,  1893. 

"At  the  time  of  his  death,  in  January,  1892,  Ten  Brink 
had  brought  his  History  of  English  Literature  only  to 
the  threshold  of  the  Elizabethan  period,  and  had  not  made 
Shakspere  the  subject  of  any  such  long  and  thorough 
investigation  as  he  had  bestowed  on  Chaucer.  At  the 
same  time,  Shakspere  had  long  been  a  favorite  study  with 
him.  It  was  the  great  dramatist  that  formed  for  him 
the  central  attraction  of  English  philology,  and  dispelled 
whatever  misgivings  he  might  at  any  time  have  had  con- 
cerning the  narrowness  of  his  specialty.  After  his  un- 
timely death,  therefore,  it  was   natural  that   the    pupils 


90  CRITICISM. 

who  had  been  delighted  with  his  academic  lectures  upon 
Shakspere  should  wish  to  see  them  in  print.  The  manu- 
script proved  unavailable,  and  so,  as  a  second  choice,  his 
literary  executors  decided  to  publish  a  course  of  popular 
lectures  delivered  by  him  in  1888  at  Frankfort-on-the- 
Main.  These  form  the  contents  of  the  volume  before 
us." 

5.  Structure :  the  Summary.  —  After  such  prefatory 
matter  as  is  necessary  comes  what  may  be  called  the 
stimmary.  Here  there  is  opportunity  for  the  display 
of  skill  in  concise  narration  or  exposition ;  for,  before 
passing  judgment  on  the  book  in  question,  it  is  our 
duty  to  inform  the  reader  just  what  the  gist  of  its 
contents  is.  In  this  lies,  in  most  cases,  a  large  part 
of  the  value  of  a  good  review.  Granted  that  we 
know  in  brief  what  there  is  in  a  book,  we  may  know 
all  that  we  care  to  know  about  it.  In  the  case  of 
the  volume  of  lectures  mentioned  in  Section  4,  for 
instance,  the  reviewer  and  critic  devotes  five  succes- 
sive paragraphs  to  stating  the  main  points  of  the  five 
lectures,  —  an  amount  of  information  which  would, 
for  the  general  reader,  suffice. 

6.  Structure  :  the  Decision.  —  After  the  summary 
comes  an  opinion  as  to  the  value  of  the  book  as  a 
whole,  and  as  to  the  relation  of  the  parts  to  the 
whole.  To  this  may  be  added,  usually  in  a  separate 
paragraph,  the  mention  of  such  errors  as  are  not  in 
themselves  important.  The  concluding  paragraph  of 
the  review  already  referred  to  will  give  the  student 


CRITICISM.  91 

a  general    idea  of    this    important    part    of    literary 
criticism  :  — 

"From  this  brief  account  it  will  appear  that  the  lectures 
are  in  no  sense  a  contribution  to  Shaksperian  scholarship. 
We  have  not  here  such  a  treatment  of  the  subject  as 
we  doubtless  should  have  had  if  the  gifted  author  had 
lived  a  few  years  longer.  Still,  just  as  it  is,  the  little 
volume  is  worthy  of  a  cordial  welcome.  It  reads  pleas- 
antly, and  is  characterized  by  urbanity  and  good  sense. 
Here  and  there,  too,  imbedded  in  a  context  of  easy  popu- 
lar exposition,  one  lights  upon  observations  that  go  to  the 
heart  of  the  matter,  and  testify  to  riches  held  in  reserve. 
And,  after  all,  we  doubtless  have  here,  unencumbered 
with  any  philological  scaffolding,  the  main  substance  of 
what  Ten  Brink  would  have  had  to  say  in  a  more  learned 
treatise.  We  may  note  in  conclusion  that  the  title-page 
is  faced  by  a  spirited  etching  of  the  author,  and  that  the 
book  is  handsomely  printed.  One  or  two  trifling  mis- 
prints have  come  to  our  attention :  Porzia,  p.  53,  but 
Portia.,  p.   146  and  elsewhere  ;  Hindergmnd,  p.  94." 

EXERCISE. 

1.  Write  reviews  of  two  recent  books  :  (i)  a  vol- 
ume of  essays,  travels,  biography,  or  science  ;  (2)  a 
volume  of  poetry,  a  novel,  or  a  play. 

2.  Read  Arnold's  essay  on  the  Function  of  Crit- 
icism at  the  Present  Time,  and  comment  on  its 
contents. 

3.  Test  the  value  of  a  number  of  newspaper  book- 
reviews.  Notice  whether  they  are  merely  compli- 
mentary, unnecessarily  condemnatory,  or  judicially 
fair. 


92  EXPOSITION. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

EXPOSITION. 

1.  Distinction  between  the  Two  Great  Classes  of  Composi- 
tion.—  Just  as  Description  and  Narration  deal  with 
the  outer  world  of  scenes  and  happenings,  so  do  Ex- 
position,^ Argument,  and  Persuasion  deal  with  the 
inner  world  of  thoughts  and  feelings.  And  just  as  the 
highest  aim  of  Description  and  Narration  is  to  pro- 
duce illusion,  so  the  highest  aim  of  Exposition,  Argu- 
ment, and  Persuasion  is  to  impart  knowledge  or  to 
influence  belief  and  action. 

2.  Exposition  is  Beneficial  to  Intellectual  Growth.  —  The 

qualities  of  mind  which  bring  success  in  Exposition 
and  Argument  are  of  a  different  order  from  those 
which  bring  success  in  Narration  and  Description. 
The  brilliancy,  facile  wit,  and  fancy  of  the  good  nov- 
elist are  by  no  means  to  be  despised  ;  but  they  stand 
less  high  in  the  catalogue  of  virtues  that  education 
lays  most  stress  on  than  the  ability  to  reason,  to 
infer,  to  explain,  and  to  prove  —  powers  which  be- 
token sound  and  vigorous  intellectual  life.  We  need 
perhaps  to  cultivate  our  imaginations,  but  we  need 
above  all  to  make  sure  of  the  guiding  faculties  of 
life  —  the  reason  and  the  understanding.      Intelligent 

'   For  a  definition  of  Exjiosition,  see  Introduction,  page  4. 


EXPOSITION.  93 

thinking  must,  therefore,  be  our  aim  during  the 
remainder  of  this  course  of  study.  In  acquiring 
habits  of  intelligent  and  coherent  thought,  nothing, 
we  shall  discover  by  experience,  is  more  helpful  than 
practice  in  written  Exposition.  For,  unless  we  can 
express  what  we  think,  it  is  useless  ever  to  pretend 
that  we  know  what  we  think.  How  little  we  really 
understand  any  given  subject  we  never  fully  realize 
until  we  are  obliged  to  speak  or  write  connectedly 
about  it. 

In  general,  then,  the  educative  importance  of  Ex- 
position —  which  we  take  for  the  moment,  without 
further  definition,  to  be  simply  the  coherent  and  in- 
telligent expression  of  thought — is  that  it  checks 
the  overhasty  leaps  of  the  imagination  by  forcing  a 
clearer  understanding  of  what  the  leap  is  for  and  to. 
It  counteracts  the  opposite  danger  of  entertaining  at 
the  same  time  too  many  conflicting  ideas  by  forcing 
us  to  subordinate,  at  least  for  the  time  being,  all 
other  ideas  to  the  one  we  are  in  the  act  of  expound- 
ing. It  forces  us  also  to  know  what  we  know  clearly, 
instead  of  after  the  hazy  fashion  of  the  mere  unpro- 
ductive reader.  It  shows  us,  finally,  the  real  diffi- 
culty and  complexity  of  thoughts  which  we  have 
perhaps  been  in  the  habit  of  talking  about  with  a 
self-confident  assumption  of  knowledge. 

Discipline  of  thought  in  general  is  not,  however, 
the  only  service  of  Exposition.  We  shall  need  it  in 
fulfilling  the  duties  of  any  profession  or  branch  of 
trade  we  may  enter.     Everywhere — in  law,  in  medi- 


94  EXPOSITION. 

cine,  in  teaching,  in  preaching,  in  business  —  we  shall 
find  it  of  the  utmost  importance  to  be  able  to  give 
others  an  intelligible  and  coherent  account  of  our 
ideas.  Often,  indeed,  plain  Exposition  is  a  better 
means  of  convincing  others  than  Argument  itself. 
Understanding  what  a  man's  ideas  are  must  in  any 
case  be  the  first  step  towards  accepting  them. 

3.  The  Subject-Matter  of  Exposition.  —  The  subject- 
matter  with  which  Exposition  deals  is  not  perceptions, 
but  ideas.  Thoughts,  ideas,  generalizations  —  such 
subject-matfer  is  always  essentially  the  same,  in  that 
it  comprises  our  reflections  upon  or  about  things  out- 
side us.  Now,  things  outside  us,  we  should  notice, 
are  always  particular  things  :  this  particular  horse, 
for  example,  or  that  particular  horse.  Horse  in  gen- 
eral nowhere  exists  in  the  outer  world,  though  it  may 
readily  exist  in  our  thought.  We  can  describe  a  par- 
ticular horse  as  so  many  hands  high,  and  with  such 
and  such  characteristics  ;  but  we  obviously  cannot 
describe  horse  in  general  ;  for,  if  we  give  him  par- 
ticular characteristics  of  color  or  shape  or  size,  he 
ceases  to  be  horse  in  general  and  becomes  the  par- 
ticular animal  we  describe. 

What,  then,  can  we  say  about  horse  in  general  .'' 
Mr.  Stormonth,  in  his  dictionary,  is  satisfied  with 
saying,  a  familiar  domestic  animal.  Richard  III., 
fighting  on  Bosworth  field,  cried  :  "  A  horse !  a 
horse!  my  kingdom  for  a  horse!"  The  Psalmist, 
on  the  other  hand,  said :  "  An  horse   is   a  vain  thing 


EXPOSITION.  95 

for  safety  :  neither  shall  he  deliver  any  by  his  great 
strength."  Here  we  learn  certain  facts  about  horse 
in  general ;  to  wit,  that  he  is  in  Mr.  Stormonth's 
opinion  a  familiar  domestic  animal,  that  King  Rich- 
ard longed  for  one  of  the  horse  kind  for  safety,  and 
that  the  sacred  writer  held  the  strength  of  a  horse  no 
safety.  All  this  knowledge  has  to  do  with  no  partic- 
ular horse  :  a  horse  may  be  white  or  black  or  brown 
or  bay,  and  yet  be  a  familiar  domestic  animal,  yet  be 
for  King  Richard  a  means  of  safety,  yet  be  in  the 
Psalmist's  thought  no  means  of  safety. 

Again,  suppose  we  wish  to  know  all  that  is  essen- 
tial to  this  idea  of  horse  in  general,  all  that  modern 
science  has  agreed  on  concerning  him.  Wc  turn, 
say,  to  an  encyclopsedia  article  on  Horse.  In  the 
Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  under  that  general  title, 
is  a  solid  article  of  nearly  eighty  columns,  stating  as 
succinctly  as  possible  what  the  several  learned  writers 
suppose  to  be  the  most  essential  and  interesting 
present  knowledge  concerning  horse  in  general. 
First,  they  take  up  his  zodlogical  descent  from  tapir- 
like little  animals  living  in  the  eocene  period  ;  then 
the  horse's  anatomy,  history,  management,  breeding, 
stable-management,  saddle-management,  and  use  for 
racing.  Descriptions  of  particular  sample  parts  and 
animals,  narratives  of  particular  episodes  in  horse- 
history,  enter  into  the  course  of  the  article  ;  but  the 
whole  drift  of  the  essay  is  simply  to  make  as  clear  as 
possible  this  conception  of  horse  in  general.  Theo- 
retically, Exposition  always  expounds  the  nature  or 


96  EXPOS/T/OA'. 

character  of  something  in  genera/.  Practically,  it  may- 
deal  either  with  an  object  in  general  or  with  anything 
that  may  be  considered  as  an  integral  idea  :  the  char- 
acter of  Napoleon,  for  instance,  the  Franco-Prussian 
War.  or,  in  brief,  any  subject  about  which  one  could 
write  an  essay  or  a  review. 

4.  Unity  in  Exposition.  —  Since  Exposition  is  simply 
the  explanation  of  a  thought,  every  good  Exposition 
is  capable  of  being  reduced  to  a  single  term,  which 
contains  the  idea  expounded  in  its  most  general  form  ; 
that  is.  we  shall  find  on  examination  that  in  the  cohe- 
rent treatment  of  expository  matter  there  is  always 
one  central  idea  from  which  all  the  threads  of  Exposi- 
tion proceed.  All  the  work  of  Herbert  Spencer,  for 
instance,  is  the  expounding  of  a  single,  simple  idea, 
which  may  be  expressed  in  untechnical  language 
somewhat  as  follows  :  everything  in  the  universe  is 
continually  changing  in  accordance  with  fixed  laws. 
If  all  expositions  of  whatever  sort,  whether  they 
include  only  a  few  spoken  words  or  volumes  upon 
volumes  of  close  print,  are  reducible  to  a  single,  sim- 
ple idea,  it  follows  that  if  we  understand  the  princi- 
ples on  which  the  expounding  of  a  single,  simple  idea 
is  based  we  understand  the  principles  on  which  all 
Exposition  is  based.  These  principles  we  shall  now 
consider. 

5.  Method  of  Collecting  Material  for  Exposition.  —  Think- 
ing is  simply  the  process  of  arranging  our  perceptions 
according  to  their  different  kinds,  and  P^xposition  is 


EXPOSITION.  97 

nothing  but  the  making  clear  of  the  classifications 
we  have  thus  made.  The  first  question,  therefore, 
that  we  have  to  ask  ourselves  when  we  are  beginning 
the  exposition  of  a  given  subject  is,  What  kind  of  a 
thing  is  it  ?  When  we  have  answered  that  question 
we  can  take  our  own  answer  as  a  point  of  departure 
for  a  new  inquiry,  and  ask,  What  kind  of  thing  is 
it  ?  Proceeding  in  this  fashion,  we  are  not  likely  to 
encounter  any  great  practical  difficulty  in  collecting 
material  for  Exposition.  For  instance,  let  us  suppose 
that  Mr.  Stormonth,  in  writing  his  dictionary,  asks 
himself,  when  he  comes  to  the  idea  of  horse  in  gen- 
eral. What  kind  of  thing  is  horse  in  general  "■  An 
animal.  But  what  kind  of  animal .''  A  domestic 
animal.  But  what  kind  of  domestic  animal .'  A 
familiar  domestic  animal.  And  for  practical  pur- 
poses Mr.  Stormonth  thinks  this  classification  suffi- 
cient, though  obviously  he  might  have  continued  the 
process  indefinitely,  until  he  had  added  to  his  first 
simple  definition  all  the  limitations  which  the  authors 
of  the  article  in  the  Encyclopcedia  Britannica  have 
specified. 

Perhaps,  however,  the  best  illustration  of  this 
method  of  questioning  one's  self  or  others  in  order 
to  obtain  material  for  Exposition,  comes  from  Plato. 
He  is  trying  to  find  out  what  sort  of  thing  a  sophist 
is.  He  intends  eventually  to  say  that  a  sophist  is  like 
an  angler,  and  so  he  goes  to  work  to  expound  what  an 
angler  is.  We  shall  notice  how  every  step  in  the 
specification  of  what  an  angler  is,  is  an  answer  to  the 
possible  question.  What  sort  of  thing  is  this .'' 


98  EXPOSITION. 

Stranger.  Let  us  begin  by  asking  whether  he  [an 
angler]  is  a  man  having  or  not  having  art,  but  having 
some  other  power. 

Theaetetus.     He  is  clearly  a  man  of  art. 

Str.     And  there  are  two  kinds  of  arts  ? 

Theaef.     How  is  that .'' 

Str.  There  is  agriculture,  and  the  tending  of  mortal 
creatures ;  and  the  art  of  constructing  or  moulding  ves- 
sels, as  we  term  them,  and  there  is  the  art  of  imitation  ; 
all  these  may  properly  be  called  by  a  single  name. 

Theaet.     What  do  you  mean  ?     And  what  is  the  name  ? 

Str.  He  who  brings  into  existence  something  that  did 
not  exist  before  is  said  to  be  a  producer,  and  that  which 
is  brought  into  existence  is  said  to  be  produced. 

Thcact.     True. 

Str.  And  all  the  arts  which  were  just  now  mentioned 
are  characterized  by  this  power  of  producing  ? 

Theaet.     They  are. 

Str.  Then  let  us  sum  them  up  under  the  name  of 
productive  art. 

Theaet.     Very  good. 

Str.  Next  follows  the  whole  class  of  learning  and 
acquiring  knowledge,  together  with  trade,  fighting,  hunt- 
ing ;  since  none  of  these  produces  anything,  but  is  only 
engaged  in  conquering  by  word  or  deed,  or  in  preventing 
others  from  conquering  things  which  exist  and  have  al- 
ready been  produced  —  in  each  and  all  of  these  branches 
there  appears  to  be  an  art  which  may  be  called  acquisitive. 

Theaet.     Yes,  that  is  the  proper  name. 

Str.  Seeing,  then,  that  all  arts  are  either  acquisitive 
or  productive,  in  which  class  shall  we  place  the  art  of  the 
angler  1 


EXPOSITION.  99 

Theaet.     Clearly  in  the  acquisitive  class. 

Str.  iVnd  the  acquisitive  may  be  subdivided  into  two 
parts  :  there  is  voluntary  exchange,  which  is  effected  by 
gifts,  hire,  purchase ;  and  the  other  part  of  acquisitive, 
which  takes  by  force  of  word  or  deed,  may  be  termed  forci- 
ble exchange  ? 

Theaet.     That  is  implied  in  what  has  been  said. 

Str.  And  may  not  this  forcible  exchange  be  again  sub- 
divided ? 

Theaet.     How  ? 

Str.  Open  force  may  be  called  fighting,  and  secret 
force  may  have  the  general  name  of  hunting  ? 

Theaet.     Yes. 

Str.  And  there  will  be  a  want  of  discrimination  in  not 
further  dividing  the  art  of  hunting. 

Theaet.     How  would  vou  make  the  division  ? 

Str.     Into  the  hunting  of  living  and  of  lifeless  prey. 

Theaet.     Yes,  if  both  kinds  exist. 

Str.  Of  course  they  exist ;  the  hunting  after  lifeless 
things  having  no  special  name,  except  in  the  case  of  div- 
ing, and  such  small  matters  may  be  omitted ;  the  hunting 
after  living  things  may  be  called  animal  hunting. 

Theaet.     Yes. 

Str.  And  animal  hunting  may  be  tfuly  said  to  have 
two  divisions,  land-animal  hunting,  which  has  many  kinds 
and  names,  and  the  other  the  hunting  after  animals  who 
swim,  —  water-animal  hunting  ? 

Theaet.     True. 

Str.  And  of  swimming  animals,  one  class  lives  on  the 
wing  and  the  other  in  the  water  ? 

Theaet.    Certainly. 

Str.  Fowling  is  the  general  term  under  which  the 
hunting  of  all  birds  is  included. 


lOO  EXPOSITION. 

Theacf.     True. 

Str.  The  hunting  of  the  water  animals  has  the  general 
name  of  fishing. 

llicaet.     Yes. 

Str.  And  shall  we  not  divide  this  sort  of  hunting  also 
into  two  principal  kinds  ? 

Theact.     What  are  they  ? 

Str.  There  is  one  kind  which  takes  them  in  nets,  the 
other  which  takes  them  by  a  blow. 

T/icad.  What  do  you  mean,  and  how  do  you  distin- 
guish them  ? 

Str.  As  to  the  first  kind  —  since  all  that  surrounds 
and  encloses  anything  to  prevent  egress,  may  be  rightly 
called  an  enclosure  — 

Theaet.     Very  true. 

Str.  For  which  reason  twig  baskets,  casting-nets, 
nooses,  creels,  and  the  like  may  all  be  termed  "enclo- 
sures." 

Theaet.     True. 

Str.  And  therefore  this  first  kind  of  hunting  may  be 
called  by  us  hunting  with  enclosures,  or  something  of  that 
sort  1 

Theaet.     Yes. 

Str.  The  other  kind,  which  is  practised  with  hooks 
and  three-pronged  spears,  when  summed  up  under  one 
name,  may  be  called  striking,  unless  you,  Theaetetus,  can 
find  some  better  name  ? 

Theaet.  No  matter  about  the  name  —  that  will  do  very 
well. 

.  Str.  There  is  one  mode  of  striking  which  is  done  at 
night,  and  by  the  light  of  a  fire,  and  is  called  by  the  hun- 
ters themselves  firing,  or  spearing  by  firelight. 

Theaet.     True. 


EXPOSITION.  I O I 

Str.  And  the  fishing  by  day  is  called  by  the  general 
name  of  "  fishing  with  barbs,"  since  the  spears,  too,  are 
barbed  at  the  point. 

Theact.     Yes  ;  that  is  the  term. 

Str.  Of  this  barb-fishing,  that  which  strikes  the  fish, 
who  is  below,  from  above  is  called  spearing,  because  this 
is  the  way  in  which  the  three-pronged  spears  are  used. 

Theaet.     Yes  ;  that  is  a  term  which  is  employed. 

Str.     Then  there  is  only  one  kind  remaining. 

Theaet.     U'hat  is  that  ? 

Str.  When  the  blow  which  is  given  by  the  hook  is  not 
as  with  the  spear  fixed  in  any  part  of  the  prey,  but  about 
the  head  and  mouth,  the  movement  is  from  below  upwards, 
and  the  fish  is  drawn  out  with  reeds  and  rods  :  —  What  is 
the  right  name  of  that,  Theaetetus  ? 

Theact.  I  suspect  that  we  have  now  discovered  the  ob- 
ject of  our  search. 

Str.  Then  now  you  and  I  have  come  to  an  understand- 
ing not  only  about  the  name  of  the  angler's  art,  but  about 
the  definition  of  the  thing.  One  half  of  all  art  was  acquisi- 
tive —  half  of  the  acquisitive  was  conquest  or  taking  by 
force,  half  of  this  was  hunting,  and  half  of  the  hunting 
was  hunting  animals,  half  of  this  was  hunting  water-ani- 
mals —  of  this  again,  the  under  half  was  fishing,  half  of 
fishing  was  striking  ;  the  first  half  of  this  was  fishing  with 
a  barb,  and  one  half  of  this,  being  the  kind  which  strikes 
with  a  hook  and  draws  the  fish  from  below  upwards,  is 
the  kind  which  we  are  now  seeking,  and  which  is  hence 

denoted  angling  (do-TraXtevTiK^,  dvao-Tracr^at). 

Plato:  Sophist  ( Jowett's  translation,  edition  of  1871,  vol.  iii., 
pp.  478-80). 


I02  EXPOSITION. 

6.  Method  of  Collecting  Material  for  Exposition  :  Exclu- 
sion and  Analogy.  —  To  exhaust  the  possibilities  of 
Exposition  we  must  add  a  second  test  question  to 
our  inquiry.  Our  first  question  is  :  What  is  the 
thing  we  are  thinking  of  ?  Our  second  question  is  : 
What  kind  of  thing  is  it  not  ?  Naturally,  moreover, 
in  dealing  with  an  entirely  new,  or  a  somewhat  un- 
familiar subject,  we  are  far  more  likely  to  know  what 
it  is  not  than  what  it  is.  Even  in  the  analysis  of  a 
familiar  subject  it  is  often  natural  to  lay  stress  at 
once  on  the  qualities  or  characteristics  it  does  not 
possess.  Of  the  British  Museum,  for  instance,  we 
might  say  that  it  is  an  enormous  library,  a  well- 
arranged  library,  a  library  where  the  scholar  is  sure, 
as  a  rule,  to  find  almost  all  the  printed  material  he 
wishes  to  use  ;  but  we  should  be  just  as  likely  to 
begin  by  stating  that  it  is  not  a  library  from  which 
books  could  be  taken  to  one's  house  —  a  proposition 
that  at  once  distinguishes  it  from  some  other  large 
libraries.  Again,  if  we  were  asked  to  expound  so 
familiar  a  subject  as  Harvard  College,  we  might 
easily  make  distinctions  of  importance  by  showing 
that  it  is  not  entirely  a  local  institution,  not  a  secta- 
rian institution,  not  a  co-educational  institution. 

A  third  test  question,  What  is  the  thing  like }  is 
especially  valuable  for  literary  purposes.  It  gives 
vividness  to  the  idea  of  the  thing  expounded  by 
associating  it  with  ideas  more  familiar  or  more  strik- 
ing than  itself.  We  could  readily  give  a  foreigner, 
for  instance,  some  idea  of  what   our  government   is 


EXPOSITION.  103 

if  we  laid  stress  on  the  points  of  similarity  between 
our  political  organization  and  those  with  which  he  is 
familiar  in  his  own  country.  An  American  univer- 
sity, we  could  tell  an  Englishman,  is  in  such  and 
such  respects  like  an  English  university,  and  in  such 
and  such  respects  like  a  German  university.  We 
must  not  forget,  however,  that  comparisons  and  an- 
alogies are  dangerous,  because  they  are  by  nature 
inexact  statements.  To  say  what  a  thing  is  like  is 
obviously  not  saying  what  it  is. 

7.  Practical  Hints.  —  A  practical  hint  as  to  the  most 
convenient  method  of  procedure  in  Exposition  will 
perhaps  be  of  value.  It  is  often  worth  while  for  the 
beginner,  before  undertaking  to  expound  a  subject,  to 
take  three  sheets  of  paper,  and  to  write  at  the  top  of 
the  first  sheet  the  words,  What  it  is  not ;  at  the  top  of 
the  second  sheet  the  words,  What  it  is  ;  at  the  top 
of  the  third  sheet  the  words,  What  it  is  like.  As  ideas 
occur  tothe  student,  from  observation  or  reading,  he 
can  then  jot  them  down  on  the  appropriate  sheet. 
In  this  way  the  substance  of  an  essay  will  grow 
almost  without  conscious  effort  on  the  part  of  the 
writer,  and  shape  itself  into  a  very  fair  orderliness. 
For  instance,  let  us  suppose  that,  realizing  that  criti- 
cism is  one  of  the  most  important  and  characteristic 
genres  of  literature  at  the  present  day,  I  undertake  to 
expound  my  idea  of  what  criticism  is,  and  that  I 
have  prepared  my  three  sheets  of  paper  for  notes. 
I  happen,  we  will  suppose,  to  hear  some  one  say  of 


104  EXPOSITION. 

a  shrew  or  a  gossip,  that  she  is  a  very  critical  per- 
son —  forever  finding  fault.  Is  that,  then,  what  I 
mean  by  criticism  —  finding  fault  ?  Certainly  not. 
I  therefore  jot  down  on  my  first  sheet  of  paper  : 
"Criticism  is  not  mere  fault-finding."  Asrain,  we 
will  suppose,  I  think  of  going  to  a  certain  play,  and, 
asking  a  friend  whether  it  is  worth  while  or  not,  I 
am  advised  to  consult  So-and-So,  who  is  excessively 
fond  of  the  theatre.  So-and-So  is  evidently  held  to 
be  a  good  critic  because  he  is  fond  of  what  he  criti- 
cises. The  idea  is  suggestive,  and  I  enter  on  my 
second  sheet  the  note  that  criticism  is  sympathetic, 
modifying  the  statement,  on  second  thought,  by  enter- 
ing on  my  first  sheet  again  the  memorandum  that  of 
course  criticism  is  not  mere  finding  favor  any  more 
than  it  is  merely  finding  fault.  On  my  third  sheet 
observation  might  lead  me  to  note  that  criticism  is 
like  justice,  unprejudiced.  Such  memoranda,  made 
mentally  or  recorded,  are  in  most  cases  the  necessary 
steps  toward  rendering  to  ourselves  a  clear  account 
of  our  ideas. 

8.  The  Plan.  —  Memoranda  of  the  sort  just  men- 
tioned are,  however,  far  from  constituting  the  skele- 
ton of  the  Exposition  itself,  though  they  may  suggest 
in  the  rough  the  order  which  it  is  best  to  pursue. 
When  the  material  for  the  Exposition  is  all  in,  it  is 
necessary  to  decide  carefully  upon  the  structure  of 
the  essay  as  a  whole,  determining  at  what  point  it  is 
best  under  the  circumstances  to  begin,  and  by  what 


EXPOSITION.  I O  5 

Steps  and  how  rapidly  it  is  well  to  lead  up  to  the  cen- 
tral idea.  What  such  a  plan  should  be  may  be  gath- 
ered from  the  following  skeleton  of  an  interesting 
chapter  in  the  Anicrican  ConnnomvealtJi.  Some  such 
scheme  Mr.  Bryce  must  have  worked  on  in  the 
process  of  composition.  The  quality  of  style  to  be 
secured  in  Exposition,  it  should  be  noticed,  is  clear- 
ness, the  various  devices  for  securing  which  it  is 
not  necessary  here  to  repeat. 

Tlie  Universities.      (Vol.  ii.,  chap,  ci.) 

IF  1.  Introduction.  General  peculiarities  of  the  his- 
tory of  American  universities. 

IT  2.  The  founding  of  Harvard. 

11 3.  The  founding  of  other  colleges  from  1693  to 
■1764. 

11  4.  Two  types  of  American  colleges  :  the  "  private  " 
type. 

IT  5.  Two  types  of  American  colleges  :  the  "  public  " 
type. 

IT  6.   Institutions  that  do  not  fall  in  either  class. 

IT  7.  Why  treatment  of  the  subject  of  American  uni- 
versities must  be  brief  and  orderly.^ 

IT  8.   Statistics  in  regard  to  colleges. 

IT  9.  Gene  fill  character  of  the  universities  and  colleges  : 
the  better  class. 


1  In  the  rest  of  the  skeleton  headings  printed  in  italics  are  those 
which  Mr.  Bryce  himself  inserted  at  the  beginning  of  the  paragraph 
in  question. 


Io6  EXPOSITION. 

II 10.  General  character  of  the  universities  and  col- 
leges :  the  poorer  class. 

^  11.  The  revenues  of  the  colleges. 

II 12.  The  government  of  the  colleges :  in  State  col- 
leges. 

H  13.  The  government  of  the  colleges  :  in  other  col- 
leges. 

II 14.  The  government  of  the  colleges  :  movement 
toward  representation  of  graduates  upon 
governing  boards. 

H  15.    TJie  teaehing  staff :  in  the  East. 

H  16.  The  teaching  staff  :  in  the  West. 

H  17.  The  teaching  staff  :  salaries. 

H  18.  The  teaching  staff  :  social  position. 

H  19.    The  students. 

H  20.  Buildings  and  external  aspect. 

H  21.    Time  spent  in  study. 

H  22.  Local  distribution  of  universities  and  colleges. 

H  23.  Systejn  ajui  methods  of  instruction :  the  growth 
of  the  elective  system. 

H  24.  System  and  methods  of  instruction  :  decay  of 
the  "recitation"  system. 

H  25.  Requirements  for  entrance. 

H  20.  Degrees  and  examinations :  degrees  not  awarded, 
as  frequently  in  Europe,  on  the  results  of  a 
single  examination. 

1127.  Degrees  and  examinations:  contrast  between 
the  American  system  and  that  in  vogue  at 
Oxford  and  Cambridge. 

H  28.  Degrees  and  examinations  :  value  of  American 
degrees. 


EXPOSITION.  107 

H  29.  Degrees  and  examinations :  laxity  in  granting 
degrees. 

IT  30.  Degrees  and  examinations  :  social  value  of  a 
degree. 

H  31.   Post-graduate  coilvscs. 

^32.  Professio)ial  and  scientific  schools. 

IT  33.  ResearcJi  in  American  colleges. 

H  34.   Aids  to  desci^ving  students. 

IF  35.   Social  life  of  the  students :  in  general. 

IF  36.  Social  life  of  the  students  :   fraternities. 

TT  37.  Religion:  a  large  number  of  the  American  col- 
leges and  uni\-ersities  are  denominational. 

IF  38.  Religion  :  religious  exercises. 

IF  39.  The  provision  of  university  education  for  zvonien  : 
co-education. 

IF  40.  The  provision  of  university  education  for 
women  :  separate  institutions. 

IF  41.  General  observations:  the  great  variety  of 
American  colleges. 

^\  42.  General  observations  :  American  colleges  are 
in  a  state  of  transition. 

IF  48.  General  observations :  the  struggle  between 
the  greater  universities  and  the  denomina- 
tional colleges. 

IF  44.  General  observations  :  American  universities 
free  and  popular  ;  the  alleged  danger  from 
the  influence  of  small  and  weak  colleo:es  on 
high  standards. 

"F  45.  General  observations  :  the  higher  learnins:  is 
in  no  danger  from  such  institutions,  which 
do,  in  their  wav,  a  great  deal  of  good. 


I08  EXPOSITION. 

1146.  General  observation:  conclusion:  ...  "If  I 
may  venture  to  state  the  impression  which 
the  American  universities  have  made  upon 
me,  I  will  say  that  while  of  all  the  insti- 
tutions of  the  country  they  are  those  of 
which  the  Americans  speak  most  modestly, 
and  indeed  deprecatingly,  they  are  those 
which  seem  to  be  at  this  moment  making 
the  swiftest  progress,  and  to  have  the  bright- 
est promise  for  the  future.  They  are  sup- 
plying exactly  those  things  which  European 
critics  have  hitherto  found  lacking  in  Amer- 
ica ;  and  they  are  contributing  to  her  polit- 
ical as  well  as  to  her  contemplative  life 
elements  of  inestimable  worth." 

9,  What  is  Indispensable  to  a  Good  Exposition.  —  Indis- 
pensable to  a  good  Exposition  are  :  (i)  a  definite  sub- 
ject, not  too  large  for  the  writer's  information  ;  (2) 
an  unprejudiced  mind  ;  (3)  a  clear  conception  of  the 
capacity  and  previous  information  of  the  person,  or 
persons,  to  whom  the  Exposition  is  addressed  ;  (4) 
a  good  beginning ;  (5)  orderly  structure  ;  (6)  a  con- 
clusion that  sums  up,  if  possible,  the  matter  con- 
tained in  the  whole  Exposition. 

10.  Exercise.  —  It  will  not  be  necessary  to  print 
here  materials  for  an  exercise  on  the  principles  of 
Exposition.  Good  Expositions  are  so  common  in 
books,  magazines,  and  even  in   newspapers,   that   it 


EXPOSITION.  109 

will  be  easy  for  the  student,  especially  under  the 
direction  of  his  instructor,  to  find  an  abundance  of 
examples,  both  of  what  he  should  strive  after,  and 
of  what  he  should  shun.  The  writings  of  Mr.  John 
Fiske,  Prof.  Huxley,  and  Prof.  Tyndall  may,  as  a 
rule,  be  recommended  as  good  models  of  popular 
Exposition. 


I  lO  ARGUMENT. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

ARGUMENT. 

1.  Argument  an  Act  of  Judgment.  —  Three  steps  lead 
naturally  toward  the  attitude  of  mind  suitable  for 
argument  :  (i)  uncertainty  in  regard  to  the  truth  or 
falsity  of  a  certain  proposition  ;  (2)  information  as  to 
both  sides  of  the  question  ;  (3)  acceptance  and  defence 
of  one  side  or  the  other.  Argument  is  thus  a  more 
effective  means  of  escaping  paralysis  of  judgment 
than  Exposition.^  We  cast  in  our  lot  for  good  and 
all,  as  it  were,  with  an  idea  or  belief,  just  as  Hamlet, 
hesitating  between  life  or  death,  based  his  final  judg- 
ment on  the  results  of  an  argumentative  process. 
What  he  discussed  with  himself  and  the  results  of 
his  reasoning  may  be  represented  as  follows  :  — 

Question.     To  be  or  not  to  be  } 

Pj-o.     Sleep  is  peace,  and  death  is  but  sleep. 

Co7i.  Sleep  may  not  be  peace,  if  the  sleeper's 
conscience  be  not  clean,  and  death  may  resemble 
sleep  in  this  respect. 

Ergo.  As  my  conscience  is  not  clean,  I  prefer 
to  be. 

When,  therefore,  we  are  confronted  with  other 
ways  of  thinking  than  ours,  there  are  three  courses 
we   may  take:    (i)we  may   continue   in   a  state   of 

1  See  above,  page  93. 


ARGUMENT.  Ill 

doubt  and  indecision  ;  (2)  wc  may  surrender  our 
own  ideas  and  accept  blindly  those  of  others  ;  or  (3) 
we  may  accept  one  side  or  the  other  of  the  question, 
basing  our  acceptance  on  as  strictly  logical  a  demon- 
stration as  we  should  demand  in  mathematics. 

2.  Argument  a  Means  of  Self-defence.  —  Argument  is 
for  our  thoughts  what  boxing  is  for  our  persons  — 
an  art  of  self-defence.  Just  as  a  "scientific"  feather- 
weight may  be  completely  victorious  over  a  big  bully 
who  has  not  mastered  the  difference  between  an 
"underhand  cut"  and  a  "cross-counter,"  so  in  the 
arena  of  ideas  a  puny  and  ilimsy  idea  often  for  the  mo- 
ment gets  the  better  of  a  grand  and  strong  idea,  just 
because  the  puny  idea  was  presented  cleverly,  while 
the  grand  idea  did  not  know  how  to  defend  itself. 
There  is,  consequently,  no  sure  protection  against  a 
domineering  idea,  except  to  meet  it  on  its  own  ground, 
and  to  defeat  its  sophistical  logic  by  sound  argument. 
To  know  what  sound  argument  is,  is  the  purpose  of 
our  study  now.  It  is  based,  we  may  premise,  not  on 
any  arbitrary  set  of  rules,  but  on  a  series  of  practical 
observations  drawn  from  the  usage  of  men  who  have 
had  most  weight  in  the  serious  affairs  of  life,  where 
argument  in  weighing  the  pros  and  cons  of  a  law,  an 
action,  a  principle,  an  administration,  has  served 
them  as  both  shield  and  sword. 

3.  The  Dignity  of  Exposition  and  the  Dangers  of  the 
Argumentative  Attitude. —  In  the  first  place,  however, 
a  word  or  two  as  to  the  dangers  of  argumentation. 


I  1 2  ARGUMENT.  I 

Exposition,  the  mere  giving  forth  of  facts,  is  calm,         | 
dignified,  peaceful,  and  self-contained.    The  man  who 
is  unconcerned  as  to  what  others  may  think  or  say  or 
believe  in  regard  to  his  opinions,  who  goes  on  with 
the  statement  of  his  own  views  placidly  and  unob- 
trusively,   is    of    the  sort  of   stuff   that  Caesars  and         j 
Napoleons  are  made  of.     No  one  can  fail  to  respect         I 
and  admire    the    quiet    firmness  of   him  who    never 
seeks  to  impose  his  own  thoughts  upon  others,  but  as 
well  declines  to  be  imposed  upon  by  others'  thoughts.  j 

Matthew  Arnold,  a    man    who    was,  perhaps,    above  i 

most  men  of  our  time  passionately  fond  of  convincing         { 
others  of    the   right    of    his   ideas   and   the   error   of 
theirs,  has  nevertheless  felt  the  beauty  of  a  thought 
and  life  into  which  argument  and  strife  do  not  enter 
—  a  life  lived  as  the  stars  live. 

"  Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see, 
These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  diem 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

"  And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining, 
And  the  sea  its  long,  moon-silver'd  roll  ; 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 

"  Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregardful 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 
In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 


ARGUMENT.  I  I 


J 


If,  then,  we  can  live  without  demanding  that  things 
without  us  yield  us  love,  amusement,  and  sympathy  ; 
if  we  can  avoid  pining  when  we  note  the  fever  of 
some  differing  soul  ;  if,  in  short,  we  can  rest  con- 
tented with  being  a  mere  passive  spectator  of  the 
life  of  the  world  at  large,  we  can  well  dispense  with 
the  argumentative,  and  be  content  with  the  exposi- 
tory, mood.  But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  we  give  way 
to  the  love  of  argument  for  the  mere  sake  of  argu- 
ment, we  shall  be  in  a  worse  condition  than  that  of 
the  mere  passive  spectator.  The  born  arguer,  as 
most  of  us  know  by  experience,  will  take  nothing  on 
trust,  not  even  himself  ;  he  can  say  nothing  without 
immediately  turning  upon  himself  with  a  petulant, 
Why  did  I  say  that  rather  than  the  opposite  }  He 
can  do  nothing  without  inquiring  of  his  teased  self. 
Why  do  I  do  that }  or.  Should  I  do  th'is  }  If  any  one 
else  makes  the  most  innocent  assertion,  he  contra- 
dicts for  the  mere  pleasure  of  taking  the  other  side. 
Indeed,  the  love  of  arguing,  of  weighing  the  pros 
and  cons  of  every  question  that  meets  us,  may  be- 
come a  disease,  a  recognized  disease.  Even  when 
the  passion  for  argumentation  does  not  reach  mor- 
bidity, it  remains  a  state  of  mind  to  be  sedulously 
avoided.      Fitzgerald's  complaint:  — 

"  Myself  when  young  did  eagerly  frequent 
Doctor  and  Saint,  and  heard  great  argument 
About  it  and  about ;  but  ever  more 
Came  out  by  the  same  door  wherein  T  went ;  " 


114  ARGUMENT. 

—  this  complaint  we  hear  very  frequently  in   these 
days. 

4.  Earnestness  and  Tact  the  Main  Qualities  called  for  in 
Argument.  —  The  qualities  of  mind  most  necessary  in 
argument  are  earnestness  and  tact.  Earnestness  goes 
straight  to  its  goal,  and  impresses  the  reader  or  hearer 
by  its  vigor  and  intentness.  Tact  is,  as  it  were,  a 
practical  form  of  sympathy,  an  actual  putting  of  our- 
selves into  the  place  of  our  hearer,  accommodating 
ourselves  to  his  level,  to  his  prejudices.  It  may  well 
be  that  this  being  all  things  to  all  men  is  morally 
dangerous,  if  carried  too  far ;  but  in  argument,  in 
any  form  of  discourse  which  desires  to  move  or 
convince,  it  is  virtually  indispensable. 

5.  The  Point  at  Issue.  —  More  important  even  than 
earnestness  and  tact,  which,  after  all,  are  merely  ad- 
vantages of  manner  in  debate,  is  the  habit  of  forming 
a  distinct  idea  of  the  nature  and  extent  of  a  question, 
and  the  exact  point  at  issue,  before  attempting  to 
offer  arguments  for  or  against  it.  What,  the  dispu- 
tant should  ask  himself,  do  my  opponent  and  I  disa- 
gree about  — a  point  of  fact  or  a  question  of  principle, 
a  question  of  right  or  of  expediency  .^  Do  I  mean  to 
assert  that  my  opponent  is  surely  wrong,  or  only 
probably  wrong.?  wrong  for  always,  or  wrong  only 
under  certain  circumstances  }  To  answer  such  pre- 
liminary questions  is  often  really  to  settle  the  whole 
matter  amicably  and  without  discussion,  or  to  silence 


ARGUMENT.  II5 

our  opponent  by  showing  him  that  he  has  misunder- 
stood us. 

6.  The  Proposition  ;  the  Terms.  —  Argument  is  possi- 
ble only  when  there  is  a  distinct  proposition  as  its 
basis.  We  do  not  argue  simply  about  the  telegraph, 
for  instance,  but  we  may  argue  for  or  against  the 
proposition  that  the  government  should  purchase  and 
control  the  telegraph  systems  of  the  United  States. 
We  must  be  careful,  then,  to  have  as  the  basis  of  any 
argument  in  which  we  may  engage  a  distinct  propo- 
sition, a  distinct  affirmation,  which  it  is  our  object 
either  to  prove  or  to  disprove. 

We  must  be  careful,  too,  to  understand  just  what 
it  is  which  we  are  to  prove  or  to  disprove.  A  propo- 
sition is,  as  it  were,  an  equation  between  two  terms. 
For  example,  in  the  proposition,  "  the  formation  of 
trusts  is  injurious  to  the  public  welfare,"  the  two 
terms  are  (i)  "the  formation  of  trusts;"  and  (2) 
"injurious  to  the  public  welfare."  The  proposition 
to  be  proved  is  that  (i)  falls  under  the  head  of  (2)  ; 
i.e.,  that  the  formation  of  trusts  belongs  to  that  class 
of  things  which  are  injurious  to  the  public  welfare. 

Complete  proof  is  therefore  impossible  unless  there 
be  a  distinct  understanding  as  to  what  we  mean  by  a 
trust,  or  the  formation  of  a  trust,  and  as  to  what  we 
mean  by  "injurious  to  the  public  welfare."  Other- 
wise, an  opponent  might  rejoin,  "  I  agree  with  you 
that  what  you  mention  is  injurious  to  the  public  wel- 
fare, but  I  do  not  grant  that  it  is,  strictly  speaking, 


Il6  ARGUMENT. 

a  trust  ; "  or,  "  I  agree  with  you  that  trusts  have  the 
effect  you  mention,  but  I  do  not  grant  that  effects  of 
that  sort  are  injurious  to  the  public  welfare."  Notice, 
then,  that  it  is  necessary,  before  complete  logical 
proof  is  possible,  for  those  who  argue  on  the  affirma- 
tive side  of  any  question  to  be  in  complete  accord 
with  those  who  argue  on  the  negative  side  as  to  the 
terms  of  which  the  question  or  proposition  is  com- 
posed. 

7.  Definition  of  Terms.  —  Defining  the  terms  between 
which  we  wish  to  establish  a  given  relation  is  often 
of  the  greatest  importance,  if  we  would  avoid  mis- 
conception and  render  refutation  impossible.  Take, 
for  instance,  the  proposition,  frequently  upheld,  that 
Pope  was  not  a  poet.  Obviously,  the  great  difficulty 
here  is  to  define  the  term  poet ;  for  if  the  contestants 
could  agree  on  what  is  involved  in  the  term  poet,  the 
rest  would  be  a  mere  matter  of  investigation.  One 
writer  on  the  subject,  an  undergraduate,  satisfied 
himself  with  a  literal  interpretation  of  a  definition 
taken  from  a  dictionary,  to  wit,  that  a  poet  is  a 
maker,  a  maker  of  verses.  Pope  made  verses,  there- 
fore Pope  was  a  poet.  But  then  any  rhymster  must 
be  a  poet  also,  and  a  reduciio  ad  absjirdum  could  at 
any  moment  point  out  the  fallacy  which  the  looseness 
of  the  definition  permits.  Another  writer  contented 
himself  with  a  definition  based  on  Milton's  reflection 
that  he  who  would  write  poetry  of  a  high  order  must 
make  his  life  a  true  poem.     Now,   Pope  was  often 


ARGUMENT.  11/ 

jealous,  envious,  hateful  ;  his  life  was  anything  but  a 
true  poem  :  therefore,  Pope  was  not  a  poet.  Then 
with  equal  reason  must  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  whom  some 
critics  go  so  far  as  to  call  the  one  true  poet  that 
America  has  produced,  be  denied  the  name  of  poet. 
The  kind  of  definition  which  we  are  to  give  to  the 
term  poet  is  thus,  in  this  case,  the  very  root  of  the 
main  issue  itself. 

8.  Terms  and  the  Special  Issue.  —  In  defining  our 
terms  we  may  find  that  we  need  a  definition  not  only 
of  a  word  as  a  word,  of  the  sentiment  associated  with 
the  word,  of  the  full  implication  of  the  thought 
expressed  in  the  word,  but  also  of  the  limits  and 
extent  within  which,  for  the  purpose  of  this  particu- 
lar argument,  we  mean  to  take  the  word.  For  exam- 
ple, a  very  popular  forensic  topic  at  Harvard  College 
some  years  ago  was  the  question,  Was  Aaron  Burr 
guilty  of  treason  }  In  this  case  a  preliminary  analy- 
sis and  limiting  of  the  meaning  of  at  least  one  term 
is  all  important.  At  first  sight  it  might  seem  evi- 
dent that  the  term  "guilty"  was  self-explanatory, 
and  that  the  question  is  simply  equivalent  to.  Did 
Aaron  Burr  commit  treason  ">.  But  the  court  before 
which  Aaron  Burr  was  tried  decided  that  he  was  not 
guilty  of  treason.  The  court  did  not  in  the  least 
affirm  that  Burr  did  not  commit  treason  ;  it  had,  on 
the  contrary,  very  good  grounds  for  thinking  other- 
wise. According  to  law,  however,  a  man  cannot  be 
considered  guilty  of  treason  unless  there  are  two  eye- 


Il8  ARGUMENT. 

witnesses  to  an  open  treasonable  act  on  the  part 
of  the  accused.  In  Burr's  case  two  such  witnesses 
could  not  be  produced,  and  consequently  he  escaped 
conviction  for  lack  of  admissible  evidence.  Never- 
theless, Burr  may  have  been  morally  guilty  of  the 
crime  with  which  he  was  charged. 

We  really  need,  then,  a  division  of  the  term  "guilty." 
There  are  two  kinds  of  guilt,  legal  and  moral.  Now, 
legally  Burr's  case  is  fully  settled  ;  there  is  no  use 
in  reopening  it.  We  are  consequently  limited  to  the 
question  :  Was  Burr  morally  guilty  of  treason  .-'  But 
a  man  may  actually  commit  a  crime  or  he  may  simply 
try  to ;  in  either  case  he  is  morally  guilty.  The 
proposition  in  question  can  thus  be  made  still  more 
specific  by  limiting  it  :  Was  Aaron  Burr  actually  or 
only  in  intention  guilty  of  treason  .-* 

9.  The  Special  Issue. — The  definition  of  the  terms 
of  our  proposition  thus  leads  to  a  preliminary  analysis 
of  the  question,  which  results  in  a  closer  and  closer 
shutting  in  of  the  issue,  or  rather,  perhaps,  a  more 
and  more  rigorous  shutting  out  of  matter  non-essen- 
tial  to  a  special  and  determining  issue.  The  excluded 
matter  will  be  such  as  is  already  agreed  upon  without 
question  by  the  contestants,  or  such  as  is  irrelevant 
or  unimportant  for  the  resolution  of  the  special  and 
determining  issue.  This  will  be  clear  from  the  fol- 
lowing statement  of  the  general  and  the  special  is- 
sues in  Burke's  well-known  plea  for  reconciliation 
with  America.     The  original  issue,  the  general  issue, 


ARGUMENT.  I  I9 

was,  War  or  Peace  ?  By  analysis  Burke  showed  that 
war  meant  in  this  case  the  attempt  to  coerce  the 
colonies,  and  that  peace  could  be  secured  only  by 
compromise  or  concession.  Further,  coercion  would 
have  for  its  end  the  enforcement  of  legislation  with- 
out representation  ;  compromise  would  be  allowing 
the  colonies  to  purchase  immunity  from  taxation 
without  representation  ;  concession  could  only  result 
in  allowing  the  colonies  representation,  or  in  reliev- 
ing them  from  taxation.  Now,  as  both  sides  would 
agree  that  representation  was  impossible  on  account 
of  the  geographical  position  of  the  colonies,  the 
whole  question  turns  on  the  point  whether  England 
should  or  should  not  tax  the  colonies.  Instead  of 
the  general  issue,  War  or  Peace,  we  have,  therefore, 
the  triple  issue,  enforced  taxation,  temporary  taxa- 
tion, or  no  taxation.  Burke  then  proceeds  to  show 
the  evils  of  force  and  temporizing  and  the  positive 
merits  of  honest  concession. 

10.  Proof.  —  After  we  have  defined  our  terms,  as 
the  process  described  in  the  preceding  sections  is 
technically  called,  the  next  step  is  to  prepare  a  series 
of  subordinate  propositions,  as  a  conclusion  from  all 
or  most  of  which  the  proof  of  the  main  proposition 
must  follow.  For  instance,  if  we  wish  to  prove  that 
the  government  should  purchase  and  control  the  tele- 
graph systems  of  the  United  States,  we  might  devise 
the  following  method  of  proof. 

I.    The  present    system   is  {^a)   inconvenient    and 


I20  ARGUMENT. 

(J))  unfavorable  to  the  present  welfare  of  the  people 
and  ((f)  to  industrial  progress. 

II.  The  government  has  a  right  to  take  possession 
of  telegraph  lines  by  purchase. 

III.  There  would  be  many  and  great  advantages 
in  government  ownership. 

IV.  The  cost  and  inconvenience  of  the  change 
suggested  would  be  small. 

V.  Alleged  objections  to  the  change  are  of  little 
weight. 

VI.  No  change  other  than  that  suggested  is  practi- 
cally or  theoretically  possible. 

Proposition  I.,  then,  would  prove  that  some  change 
for  the  better  is  necessary;  Propositions  II.,  III., 
and  IV.,  that  the  change  suggested  would  be  feasible 
and  for  the  best  interests  of  the  country  ;  Proposi- 
tion V.,  that  alleged  or  real  objections  do  not  hold,  or 
are  of  comparatively  little  weight  ;  Proposition  VI. 
shuts  out  all  other  changes  except  those  which  would 
fall  under  the  plan  suggested.  If  these  six  proposi- 
tions are  true,  then  it  is  indisputably  j^roved  that  the 
government  should  purchase  and  control  the  tele- 
graph systems  of  the  United  States. 

The  next  step  in  the  example  we  have  taken  is 
to  prove  each  one  of  these  six  subordinate  proposi- 
tions. Proposition  I.,  for  instance,  that  the  present 
system  is  inconvenient  and  unfavorable  both  to  the 
present  welfare  of  the  people  and  to  industrial  prog- 
ress, might  depend  on  the  following  series  of  lesser 
propositions  :  — 


.   >"  ARGUMENT.  121 

(i)     The  present  system  is  a  monopoly. 

(2)  It  is  productive  of  delays. 

(3)  The  charges  under  it  are  extortionate. 

The  series  might  be  easily  extended.  The  truth 
of  Proposition  I.  must  thus  be  inferred  from  Proposi- 
tions (i),  (2),  (3),  etc.  Propositions  (i),  (2),  (3), 
etc.,  rest,  in  turn,  upon  evidence  or  testimony,  or,  in 
short,  upon  facts  which  are  known  to  be  true. 
Proposition  (3),  for  instance,  should  be  made  to 
depend  upon  well-authenticated  instances  of  extor- 
tionate charges. 

11.  Another  Example  of  Proof.  —  To  make  perfectly 
clear  the  syllogistic  process  by  which  proof  is  at- 
tained, let  us  take  another  example,  the  arguments  by 
which  Burke  supported  the  negative  side  of  the  spe- 
cial issue  referred  to  in  Section  9 :  Should  England 
tax  the  American  Colonies  .■* 

Proposition  :  England  should  not  tax  the  Ameri- 
can Colonies. 

I.    Taxation  would  be  unjust,  for  — 

(rt)   taxation  without    representation  is  tyr- 
anny. 
II.    Taxation  would  be  inexpedient,  for  — 

(^)  The  American  colonies  are  too  prosper- 
ous and  powerful  to  be  offended  with 
safety. 


/( 


122  ARGUMENT. 

(Jj)   Voluntary  contribution  pays  better  than 
a  forced  levy,  as  is  proved  by  the  case  of 

1.  Ireland. 

2.  Wales. 

3.  Chester. 

4.  Durham. 

As,  of  course,  projects  which  are  unjust  and  inex- 
pedient—  which  are  not  worthy  to  succeed  and  can- 
not succeed  —  should  not  be  attempted,  it  follows 
that  England  should  not  tax  the  American  Colonies. 

12.  Proof  and  Evidence.  —  As  still  another  illustra- 
tion, let  us  take  the  question  in  regard  to  Aaron  Burr 
which  we  discussed  in  Section  8.  Here  legal  guilt 
demands  the  bona  fide  testimony  of  two  witnesses  to 
an  overt  act  of  treason.  Legally  speaking,  then,  the 
special  issue  becomes.  Are  there,  or  are  there  not, 
two  such  witnesses  to  be  found  }  Now,  let  us  sup- 
pose that  John  Doe  and  Richard  Roe  offer  them- 
selves. Obviously  the  question  turns  at  once  on  the 
personal  character  of  these  witnesses.  Is  their  testi- 
mony on  the  face  of  it  probable,  we  must  ask  our- 
selves ;  is  it,  that  is  to  say,  consistent  with  ordinary 
experience.  If,  for  example,  an  ignorant  camp-fol- 
lower should  testify  that  the  astute  Burr  had  con- 
fided to  him  his  whole  plan  of  subverting  the  United 
States  government,  could  we  accept  his  statement 
as  probable }  Is  the  testimony  offered,  we  may  fur- 
ther ask  ourselves,  consistent  with  the  facts  already 


ARGUMENT.  1 23 

known  in  the  case  ?  is  it  also  consistent  with  itself  ? 
Such  questions  suggest  that  we  have  still  to  consider 
more  closely  the  kinds  of  evidence  on  which  proof  is 
based. 

13.  Kinds  of  Evidence.  —  Let  us  examine  the  kinds 
of  evidence  on  which  proof  has  been  based  in  the 
illustrations  we  have  already  used.  Burke's  argu- 
ment that  taxation  without  representation  is  unjust 
is  a  matter  of  pufe  reasoning  :  it  starts  from  a  gen- 
eral principle  and  ends  in  a  general  principle  ;  to  wit, 
that  the  basis  of  taxation  is  a  contract  by  which  one 
party  pays  the  other  party  to  protect  it.  If,  then, 
either  the  payment  or  the  protection  is  wanting,  the 
contract  is  null  and  void.  Now,  the  Americans  as- 
serted that  the  protection  England  offered  was  value- 
less, and  therefore  declined  to  pay  for  it.  So  far 
Burke's  argument  is  logical  and  sound,  provided 
we  can  accept  his  premises.  What  he  says  is  this. 
[Major  Premise]  Taxation  without  adequate  return  is 
unjust.  [Minor  Premise]  The  taxation  of  the  Ameri- 
can colonies  is  without  adequate  return.  Conclusion  : 
The  taxation  of  the  American  colonies  is  unjust. 

The  real  evidence  needed  now  is  to  prove  that  the 
taxation  of  the  American  colonies  is  without  adequate 
return.  If  this  is  true  the  conclusion  is  true,  for  we 
may  accept  the  major  premise  as  self-evident.  Burke 
brings  forward  the  necessary  evidence  by  showing 
signs  of  American  prosperity  and  of  the  needlessness 
of   British   protection   and   interference.      The   kind 


124  ARGUMENT. 

of  evidence  here  adduced,  the  argument  from  sign, 
is  perhaps  that  most  commonly  used.  Its  purpose  is 
to  show,  not  that  the  proposition  in  question  ought  to 
be  true,  but  that  there  are  certain  facts  in  existence 
which  could  not  exist  were  the  proposition  not  true. 
That  the  tracks  of  a  dog  are  found  in  the  s,and,  for 
instance,  is  proof  conclusive  that  a  dog  had  passed 
that  way. 

Again,  Burke  argues  that  if  England  left  America 
to  give  only  voluntary  contributions,  she  would,  in  the 
long  run,  be  the  gainer.  Here,  again,  Burke's  logic  is 
sound,  provided  that  he  can  substantiate  his  minor 
premise  that  such  is  England's  ordinary  experience 
in  her  dealing  with  her  dependencies.  Here  the  evi- 
dence which  he  adduces  is  of  the  nature  of  exam- 
ples. Certain  things  happened  in  Ireland,  in  Wales, 
at  Chester,  at  Durham.  This  is  the  argument  from 
example,  valuable  also  in  its  way ;  for  events  are 
rarely  or  never  unique  :  they  have  at  least  general 
points  of  similarity  ;  and  what  happens  in  one  case 
we  can,  in  many  instances,  suppose  will  happen  in 
other  cases  under  circumstances  substantially  the 
same. 

Or  again,  if  in  the  trial  of  Burr  a  witness  brought 
forward  against  him  should  show  unmistakable  signs 
of  intoxication,  we  might  doubt  gravely  as  to  the 
veracity  or  consistency  of  his  testimony.  This  is 
the  third  species  of  evidence,  the  argument  based  on 
antecedent  probability,  which  infers  that  a  fact  exists, 
or  does  not  exist,  from  the  fact  we  may  naturally, 


ARGUMENT.  1 25 

under  the  circumstances,  understand  why  it  might 
exist  or  not  exist. 

Pure  logic  in  argument  gives  us  only  a  provisional 
proof,  —  a  proof  provided  that  certain  facts  are  es- 
tablished. These  facts,  generally  speaking,  may  be 
established  in  any  or  all  of  three  ways  :  (i)  as  likely 
to  prove  true,  considering  present  conditions  ;  (2) 
as  apparent  from  present  conditions  ;  (3)  as  likely 
to  be  true  under  similar  conditions. 

14.  Tests  of  Evidence,  —  The  test  questions  we  found 
useful  in  collecting  the  subject-matter  for  Exposition 
were.  What  is  it  }  What  is  it  not }  What  is  it  like.'' 
In  collecting  evidence  for  or  against  the  truth  of  a 
proposition  we  may  use,  as  is  apparent  from  the  pre- 
ceding section,  somewhat  similar  test  questions  :  (i) 
Ought  it  to  be  true.?  (2)  Is  it  true.?  (3)  Is  it  like 
other  cases  that  were  true .?  The  first  question  as- 
sumes the  proposition  as  true,  and  tries  to  explain 
from  known  facts  why  it  ought  to  be  believed  ;  the 
second  does  not  assume  the  truth  of  the  proposition, 
but  shows  from  certain  facts  Jiozv  it  is  true  ;  the  third 
simply  confirms  the  first  and  the  second.  To  put  the 
case  differently  :  (i)  suggests  reasons  why  the  propo- 
sition is  plausible  ;  (2)  reasons  why  it  is  positively 
true ;  and  (3)  reasons  why  it  is  not  an  exceptional  case. 

15.  Some  Kinds  of  Evidence  are  Stronger  than  Others. — 

Robert  Burton,  in  his  Aiiatoviy  of  Melancholy,  says  : 
"  The  air  is  not  so  full  of  flies  in  summer  as  it  is  at 
all  times  of   invisible  devils  ;    this  Paracelsus  stifily 


126  ARGUMENT. 

maintains."  In  the  EncyclopcFdia  Britannica  Prof. 
Ward  writes  that  "any  liquid  .  .  .  containing  organic 
matter,  or  any  solid  food-stuff  .  .  .  allowed  to  stand 
exposed  to  the  air,  soon  swarms  with  bacteria."  Now, 
why  do  we  believe  in  Prof.  Ward's  microbes  and  not 
in  Burton's  multitudinous  devils  .?  Because,  we  may 
perhaps  answer,  we  can  verify  the  former  and  not 
the  latter.  But,  after  all,  unless  we  make  an  exami- 
nation of  food-stuff  under  such  conditions  with  a 
powerful  microscope,  a  feat  very  few  of  us  are  capa- 
ble of  actually  performing  or  likely  actually  to  per- 
form, we  are  obliged  to  take  Prof.  Ward's  word  for 
his  proposition,  and  to  refuse  to  take  Paracelsus' 
word  for  his.  Paracelsus  never  sazv  a  devil,  we  may 
urge,  and  Prof.  Ward  has  seen  bacteria.  But  Paracel- 
sus said  he  had  seen  devils.  In  one  of  his  works  he 
"reckons  up,"  says  Burton,  "many  places  in  Ger- 
many, where  they  (devils)  do  usually  walk  in  little 
coats,  some  two  feet  long."  We  are  still,  however, 
unconvinced  ;  we  say  perhaps  that  Paracelsus  lied, 
that  we  doubt  his  authority  on  such  matters,  that 
he  may  have  written  in  good  faith,  but  that  on  such 
subjects  his  eye  was  scarcely  sane. 

Here,  then,  we  have  a  sort  of  evidence  which 
involves  at  least  two  requirements  :  good  faith  and 
sanity.  The  part  good  faith  plays  is  obvious  ;  how 
far  sanity  enters  into  the  question  we  can  see  by 
considering  the  situation  a  little  more  carefully. 
Paracelsus  belonged  to  the  uncritical  age :  he  is, 
therefore,  not  to  be  relied  on.     Prof.  Ward,  on  the 


ARGUMENT.  12/ 

contrary,  is  not  only  a  living  authority,  subject  to 
cross-examination,  but  presumably  in  touch  with  the 
accurate  ways  of  modern  science  :  he  is,  therefore, 
to  be  relied  on.  But  suppose  that  we  could  repeat 
the  experience  of  Master  Facius  Cardan,  who,  his 
son  tells  us,  conjured  up,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
1491,  "seven  devils,  in  Greek  apparel,  about  forty 
years  of  age,  some  ruddy  of  complexion  and  some 
pale  ;  and  he  asked  them  many  questions,  and  they 
made  ready  answers  that  they  were  aerial  devils,  that 
they  lived  and  died  as  men  did,  save  that  they  were 
far  longer  lived."  Suppose  that  we  were  to  have 
such  a  vivid  particular  experience  with  devils  ;  should 
we  not  be  convinced  of  the  existence  of  them  ?  If, 
then,  we  have  a  direct  personal  experience  of  any- 
thing, however  strange  or  improbable,  it  is  practi- 
cally impossible  to  restrain  ourselves  from  believing 
in  the  reality  of  that  experience.  The  farther  we  get 
away  from  direct  personal  experience,  the  less  certain 
is  any  proof  we  may  bring  forward.  This  point  of 
view  suggests  the  following  scheme  of  evidence. 

16.    A  Scheme  of  the  Relative  Force  of  Different  Sorts  of 
Evidence. 

(a)   Direct :  Myself  as  witness. 

[Desiderata:    Sanity  and  good   faith,  subject  to  test  in  a 
decreasing  degree  from  (a)  to  (/').] 


I. 

Full 
Experience : 


{b)  Indirect. 


(i)   Living  witnesses,  subject  to  cross-exam- 
ination, i.e.,  testimony. 

(2)   Dead   witnesses,    not   subject   to    cross- 
examination,  i.e.,  authority. 


128 


ARGUMENT. 


II. 

Inference 

after 

Partial 

Experience : 

III. 

Inference 

before 

Experience : 


{a)  Inference  from  circumstantial  evidence:  Sign. 

[Desiderata :  In  addition  to  sanity  and  good   faith,  good 
judgment,  more  liable  to  error  in  {b)  than  («).] 

(b)  Inference  from  precedent :  Example. 


(a)  Direct  logical  probability  :  rt /rw;-/ argument. 

[Desideratum :  In    addition    to   the   above,  correct 
reasoning]. 

(b)  Indirect    logical  probability  :  parabolic  argument 
(fictitious  example). 


^  IS. 

5.  ° 


17.  The  Strength  and  Weakness  of  the  Kinds  of  Evi- 
dence:  Evidence  before  Experience. — The  weakest  of  all 
evidence  is  the  fictitious  example.  Burton,  for  in- 
stance, proves  the  existence  of  witchcraft  by  the 
alleged  example  of  Circe,  whose  charms  transformed 
into  beasts  the  companions  of  Ulysses.  A  little 
stronger  than  the  fictitious  example  is  the  kind  of 
parabolic  reasoning  so  common  in  theological  litera- 
ture. The  strength  of  the  parable  lies  in  the  fact 
that  its  truth  is  supposedly  self-evident.  That  such 
arguments,  however,  are  merely  hypotheses  which 
require  in  their  turn  to  be  proved,  even  the  tyro  in 
reasoning  can  readily  understand.  Again,  instead 
of  taking  a  fictitious  example,  a  fable,  or  a  hypotheti- 
cal case,  we  may  discuss  in  general  the  nature  of  the 
case  we  are  concerned  in  proving.  We  know  noth- 
ing about  the  fact  in  the  particular  case  under  dis- 
cussion ;  but  in  general  we  draw  certain  a  priori 
inferences,  as  did  Hegel  when  he  established  logically 
that  there  could  not  be  a  planet  between  Mars 
and  Venus — a  proposition  afterwards  disproved  by 


ARGUMENT.  1 29 

actual  discovery.  The  value  of  the  rt/r/^r/ method 
—  the  use,  in  brief,  of  evidence  before  experience  — 
is  in  supplying  an  hypothesis.  Darwin,  for  instance, 
merely  verified  by  arguments  from  sign  the  theory 
of  evolution,  guessed  long  before  by  general  conclu- 
sions of  antecedent  probability.  Arguments  based  on 
evidence  "  before  experience  "  cannot,  then,  be  relied 
on  for  complete  proof,  efficacious  as  they  may  be  in 
supplementing  or  introducing  the  results  of  evidence 
of  other  kinds.  Arguments  from  sign,  on  the  other 
hand,  unless  of  the  strongest  possible  kind,  can 
rarely  be  accepted  as  conclusive  without  the  confir- 
mation afforded  by  arguments  from  antecedent  proba- 
bility. Unless  there  are  reasons  in  general  that 
dispose  us  to  believe  a  proposition,  even  the  facts 
which  experience  may  bring  forward  in  its  favor  lose 
much  of  their  value. 

18.  Strength  and  Weakness  of  the  Kinds  of  Evidence : 
Evidence  after  Partial  Experience.  —  Evidence  after  par- 
tial experience,  the  most  common  sort  of  evidence, 
is  evidence  based  either  on  inference  from  precedent, 
the  soundest  form  of  the  argument  from  example, 
or  on  inference  from  a  large  number  of  facts  already 
established;  i.e.,  the  argument  from  sign.  The  prin- 
ciple on  which  the  first  rests  is  that  things  which  are 
alike  in  many  points  will  also  be  alike  in  other  points. 
Here  the  obvious  danger  is  that  the  degree  of  like- 
ness should  prove  insufTficient.  The  advantage  of  the 
argument  from  example  is  that  it  is  excellent  in  con- 


1 30  ARGUMENT. 


firmation  of  inferences  drawn  from  other  species  of 
evidence  :  when  we  have  ah"eady  shown  anything  to 
be  true  on  other  grounds,  it  is  helpful  also  to  show 
that  it  is  not  a  solitary  case,  that  other  instances  con- 
firm in  general  the  truth  of  our  proposition.  Stronger, 
however,  than  an  inference  from  a  parallel  case  is 
evidence  of  the  second  sort,  which  presents,  in  the 
form  of  the  argument  from  sign,  inferences  from  a 
large  number  of  facts  actually  established  about  the 
case  in  point.  Here  the  principle  is  that  when  sev- 
eral events — a,  b,  and  c,  for  instance  —  are  shown 
to  go  naturally  or  inevitably  together,  and  when  in 
a  single  case  a  and  b  have  happened,  we  believe  that 
c  has  also  happened.  If,  for  example,  A  has  in  his 
possession  goods  stolen  from  B,  if  A's  footprints  are 
found  in  the  snow  before  B's  window  immediately 
after  the  theft,  if  A's  hands  are  cut  by  the  broken 
glass  of  B's  window,  and  if  A's  hat  was  left  in  B's 
room  at  the  time  of  the  theft,  we  are  partially  or 
wholly  justified  in  believing  that  A  was  concerned  in 
the  robbery  of  B.  The  danger  of  the  argument  from 
sign  is  that  constantly  associated  with  circumstantial 
evidence  in  the  popular  mind  and  abundantly  illus- 
trated by  the  fertile  dramatic  theme  of  the  innocent 
man  unjustly  accused  of  wrong.  Complete  proof 
from  partial  experience  is  cumulative,  depending  on 
the  number  and  character  of  the  facts  or  signs  ad- 
duced. 

19.    Strength  and  Weakness  of  the  Kinds  of  Evidence: 
Evidence  based  on  Full  Experience.  —  Evidence  based  on 


ARGUMENT.  I31 

full  experience  is  obviously  the  strongest  form  of 
evidence  that  can  be  brought  forward  in  favor  of  any 
proposition.  As  its  character  and  force  may  be  readily 
seen  from  Section  15  above,  and  from  the  first  main 
division  in  the  Scheme  in  Section  16,  we  shall  not 
need  to  discuss  it  further  here. 

20.  Briefs  for  Argument.  —  Further  details  in  regard 
to  the  construction  of  an  argument  belong  either  to 
a  more  elaborate  treatise  on  argumentative  compo- 
sition, or  fall  under  the  general  principles  which 
govern  the  construction  of  the  whole  composition. ^ 
Here  we  need  add  only  instructions  in  regard  to  the 
plan  of  an  argument,  or  what  is  usually  called  the 
brief. 

A  "brief"  for  an  argument  is  simply  a  brief 
outline  of  the  argument.  Its  function  is  to  repre- 
sent the  argument  in  miniature,  to  contain  all  the 
essential  elements,  to  show  all  the  necessary  steps 
of  the  argument  itself.  As  an  argument  is  a  propo- 
sition proved,  so  a  brief  must  always  contain  two 
things  :  (i)  the  proposition  to  be  proved;  (2)  the 
proof.  Now,  any  proof  of  any  proposition  can  be  re- 
duced to  the  simple  form  :  A  is  B  because  x  is  y.  If 
it  is  not  self-evident  that  x  is  y,  the  process  of  show- 
ing why  A  is  B  must  be  carried  one  step  farther:  A 
is  B  because  x  is  j,  and  x  is  j  because  M  is  N.  If  it 
is  not  evident  that  M  is  N,  the  process  must  be  carried 

^  See  Wendell's  English  Co/tiposi/ioii,  chap.  i\^,  or  Carpenter's 
Exercises  in  Rhetoric  and  English  Composition,  chap.  xi. 


132  ARGUMENT. 

on  Still  further.      A  brief,  then,  is  simply  a  sequence 
of  reasons  for  a  proposition. 

For  further  instruction  in  the  very  important  art 
of  drawing  briefs,  and  for  full  examples  of  good,  bad, 
and  indifferent  briefs  on  a  variety  of  subjects,  the 
student  should  consult  Mr.  G.  P.  Baker's  pamphlet  : 
Specimen  Briefs  (Harvard  Co-operative  Society, 
Second  Edition). 

21.  Exercise  on  the  Principles  of  Argument.  —  In  Argu- 
ment, as  in  Exposition,  material  for  discussion  is 
ready  at  hand  in  the  books,  magazines,  and  papers 
of  the  day,  and  need  not  be  here  reprinted.  After 
learning  how  to  draw  up  a  brief  for  an  argument,  the 
student  should  first  practise  himself  in  arranging 
in  the  form  of  a  brief  several  of  the  arguments  re- 
printed and  edited  in  Mr.  G.  P.  Baker's  Materials  for 
Argtimeiitative  Composition  (Henry  Holt  and  Com- 
pany). The  same  little  book  will  also  be  found  to 
contain  almost  all  the  matter  necessary,  in  an  ele- 
mentary course,  for  the  illustration  of  the  main 
principles  of  argument.  The  student  should  then 
pass  on  to  the  drawing  up  of  briefs  on  subject-matter 
which  he  has  himself  investigated  and  collected,  and 
to  the  construction  of  arguments.  He  will  gain 
most  in  such  work,  if  he  be  subjected  as  much  as 
possible  throughout  both  processes  to  the  candid 
criticism  of  his  instructor  and  his  fellow-students. 

22.  Persuasion.  —  Persuasion  may  be  of  two  kinds: 
it  may  produce  its  effects  by  convincing  the  intellect 


ARGUMExVT.  1 33 

or  by  influencing  the  emotions.  If  it  be  of  the  first 
sort,  it  scarcely  differs  from  Argument  ;  if  of  the  sec- 
ond, it  depends  for  success  upon  skill  in  discovering 
the  dominant  mood  of  the  person  or  persons  addressed, 
and  in  deftly  playing  on  that  mood  until  it  shades  off 
into  a  state  of  feeling  concordant  with  that  which  the 
writer  desires  to  excite.  In  so  far  as  Persuasion  is 
argumentative,  the  student  will  hardly  need  a  further 
statement  of  its  elementary  principles  ;  in  so  far  as 
it  depends  upon  arousing  particular  emotions,  he  will 
gain  more  by  the  study  of  human  nature  than  by  any 
other  means.  General  information  as  to  the  princi- 
ples on  which  Persuasion  is  based  may  be  found  in 
the  treatment  of  Force  in  any  good  text-book  on 
rhetoric. 


INDEX  TO   PASSAGES   QUOTED. 


Arnold,  Matthew.      Self-Dcpciideuic,  112, 

Bible,  The.     Job,  59. 

Bryce.      The  American  Conivionwcallh,  105. 

Butcher  and  Lang.     Odyssey^  23. 

Carlyle.      Biography,  71;    Frederick  the  Great,  0,0. 

Cicero.      De  Amicitia,  25. 

Coleridge.       The  Ancient  Mariner,  64. 

CONSTANTINUS    MaNASSES,  43. 

Dante.      Hell,  52,  60;    Purgatory,  61. 

Dart.     Translation  of  the  Iliad,  22. 

Dickens.     Martin  Chnzzle-wit,  47;    Little  Dorrit,  69. 

Eliot,  George.     Felix  Holt,  44. 

Fitzgerald,   Edward.      0/nar  Khayyam,  113. 

Goethe.     Mignon,  29. 

Heine.      Zttr  Geschichte  der  Religion  und  Philosophic  in  Deiitsch- 

land,  28. 
Homer.      See  Iliad  and  Odyssey. 
Horace.      Carmina,  26. 
Hugo.     40. 

Iliad.      Dart's  Translation,  22. 
Job,  59. 

Johnson,  Samuel,  8. 

JOWETT.      Translation  of  Plato's  Sophist,  98. 
Lowell.      letters,  10. 
Macaulay.      Milton,  76. 
Maupassant,  Guy  de.     Pierre  et  Jean,  5. 
Nation,  The.     43,  89,  91. 

'35 


136  INDEX    TO   PASSAGES   QUOTED. 

Norton,  C.  E.  Introduction  to  his  Translation  of  the  Divine 
Comedy,  30;    Hell,  52,  60;    PitrgaUvy,  61. 

Odyssey.  Translation  by  Butcher  and  Lang,  23;  by  Pope,  24; 
by  Worsley,  24. 

Plato.     Sophist,  98. 

PoE.     King  Pest,  48. 

Pope.     Translation  of  the  Odyssey,  ia,;    64. 

Rochester.     Earl  of,  66. 

RosSETTi,  D.  G.      The  Blessed  Dainozel,  65. 

RUSKIN.     Modern  Painters,  54. 

Saintsbury,  G.  Translation  of.  Scherer's  George  Eliot,  17;  Eliz- 
abethan Literature,  76. 

Samuels.     Birds  of  Neiu  England,  35. 

ScHERER.      George  Eliot,  17. 

Scott,     h/anhoe,  37. 

SiiADWELL.      Preface  to  his  Translation  of  the  Divine  Comedy,  32. 

Shakspere.  Hamlet,  19;  a  French  translation  of  Hamlet,  20; 
King  Richard  III. ,  53 ;    King  Lear,  6 1 . 

Shelley.      To  a  Skylark,  65. 

VON  Sybel.      The  Founding  of  the  German  Empire,  15. 

Tennyson.     Mariana,  45. 

Virgil.     Aeneid,  62. 

Wendell.     English  Composition,  66. 

Worsley.     Translation  of  the  Odyssey,  24. 

Zola.     La  Debacle,  27. 


JUDSAKGSLm  -'-UAL. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


■  '-  '-.Pit 


L  006  833  121  4 


^6  ^ 


SIAMmRMkl  ^UiiUUL; 


O-^  i,unv'Vtp<^^ 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

nil 


AA    000  352  222 


